Copyright,  1899,  by  Henry  Altemus. 


ALPHONSE  DAUDCT 


TARTARIN 


^ 

OP    1  ARASCON 


PHILADELPHIA 

HENRY  ALTEA\US 


r%  w 
SA^ 


Contents. 


EPISODE   THK   FIRST. 

IN  TARASCON. 

Page. 
I.     The  Garden  Round  the  Giant  Trees  .    ...        11 

II.  A  general  glance  bestowed  upon  the  good 
town  of  Tarascon,  and  a  particular  one  on 
the  "cap-poppers" 16 

III.  "  Naw  !  naw  !  naw  !"      The  general  glance 

protracted  upon  the  good  town 22 

IV.  "They!" 27 

V.     How  Tartarin  went  round  to  his  Club    ...        32 

VI.  The  Two  Tartarins 37 

VII.  Tartarin — The    Europeans    at    Shanghai — 

Commerce — The  Tartars — Can  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon  be  an  Impostor? — The  Mirage  .        41 

VIII.  Mitaine's  Menagerie — A  Lion  from  the  Atlas 

at  Tarascon — A  Solemn  and  Fearsome  Con- 
frontation , 46 

IX.     Singular  effecls  of  Mental  Mirage 53 


vi  Contents. 

Tage. 
X.     Before  the  Start 58 

XI.     "  Let's  have  it  out  with  swords,  gentlemen, 

not  pins!" 61 

XII.  A  memorable  Dialogue  in  the  little  Baobab 

Villa 66 

XIII.  The  Departure 70 

XIV.  The  Port  of  Marseilles-"  All  aboard,  all 

aboard  !  " 76 


KPISODE   THK   SECOND. 

AMONG  "THE  TURKS." 

Page. 
I.     The  Passage — The  Five  Positions  of  the  Fez 

— The  Third  Evening  Out — Mercy  upon 

us  ! 83 

II.     "To  arms!  to  arms!" 88 

III.  An   Invocation   to   Cervantes — The   Disem- 

barkation— Where  are  the  Turks?-  Not  a 
sign  of  them — Disenchantment 9o 

IV.  The  First  Lying  in  Wait 99 

V.     Bang  !  bang  ! < 10") 


Contents.  vii 

Page. 

VI.  Arrival  of  the  Female — A  Terrible  Combat 

—"Game  Fellows  Meet  Here!"  .   ...  110 

VII.  About  an  Omnibus,  a  Moorish  Beauty,  and  a 

Wreath  of  Jessamine 115 

VIII.  Ye  Lions  of  the  Atlas,  repose  in  peace  !  .    .  120 
IX.  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro 125 

X.   "Tell  me  your  father's  name,  and  I  will  tell 

you  the  name  of  that  flower" 133 

XI.     Sid i  Tart' ri  Ben  Tart' ri 140 

XII.     The  Latest  Intelligence  from  Tarascon    .    .  146> 


EPISODE    THE    THIRD 

AMONG  THE  LIONS. 

Page. 

I.     What  becomes  of  the  Old  Stage-coaches   .    .  155 

II.     A   Little  Gentleman   drops  in  and   "drops 

upon"  Tartarin 163 

III.  A  Monastery  of  Lions 169 

IV.  The  Caravan  on  the  March 175 

V.     The  Night-watch  in  a  Poison-tree  Grove    .  183 

VI.  Bagged  Him  at  Last     .  . 192 

VII.  Catastrophes  upon  Catastrophes 200 

VIII.  Tarascon  again 207 


EPISODE  THE  FIRST 


IN    TARASCON 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   GARDEN   ROUND   THE    GIANT   TREES. 

MY  first  visit  to  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  has  re- 
mained a  never-to-be-forgotten  date  in  my  life; 
although  quite  ten  or  a  dozen  years  ago,  I  re- 
member it  better  than  yesterday. 

At  that  time  the  intrepid  Tartarin  lived  in 
the  third  house  on  the  left  as  the  town  begins, 
on  the  Avignon  road.  A  pretty  little  villa  in 
the  local  style,  with  a  front  garden  and  a  bal- 
cony behind,  the  walls  glaringly  white  and  the 
Venetians  very  green;  and  always  about  the  door- 
steps a  brood  of  little  Savoyard  shoeblackguards 
playing  hop-scotch,  or  dozing  in  the  broad  sun- 
shine with  their  heads  pillowed  on  their  boxes. 

Outwardly  the  dwelling  had  no  remarkable 
features,  and  none  would  ever  believe  it  the 
abode  of  a  hero;  but  when  you  stepped  inside, 

ye  gods  and  little  fishes!  what  a  change!    From 
n 


12  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

turret  to  foundation-stone — I  mean,  from  cellar 
to  garret, — the  whole  building  wore  a  heroic 
front;  even  so  the  garden! 

0  that  garden  of  Tartarin's!  there's  not  its 
match  in  Europe!  Not  a  native  tree  was  there 
— not  one  flower  of  France;  nothing  but  exotic 
plants,  gum-trees,  gourds,  cotton-woods,  cocoa 
and  cacao,  mangoes,  bananas,  palms,  a  baobab, 
nopals,  cacti,  Barbary  figs — well  you  would  be- 
lieve yourself  in  the  very  midst  of  Central 
Africa,  ten  thousand  leagues  away.  It  is  but 
fair  to  say  that  these  were  none  of  full  growth; 
indeed,  the  cocoa-palms  were  no  bigger  than 
beet-root,  and  the  baobab  (arbos  gigantea — 
"  giant  tree,"  you  know)  was  easily  enough  cir- 
cumscribed by  a  window-pot;  but,  notwithstand- 
ing this,  it  was  rather  a  sensation  for  Tarascon, 
and  the  townsfolk  who  were  admitted  on  Sun- 
days to  the  honor  of  contemplating  Tartarin's 
baobab,  went  home  chokeful  of  admiration. 

Try  to  conceive  my  own  emotion,  which  I  was 
bound  to  feel  on  that  day  of  days  when  I 
crossed  through  this  marvelous  garden:  and  that 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  13 

was  capped  when  I  was  ushered  into  the  hero's 
sanctum. 

His  study,  one  of  the  lions — I  should  say, 
lions'  dens — of  the  town,  was  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  its  glass  door  opening  right  on  to  the 
baobab. 

You  are  to  picture  a  capacious  apartment 
adorned  with  firearms  and  steel  blades  from  top 
to  bottom:  all  the  weapons  of  all  the  countries 
in  the  wide  world — carbines,  rifles,  blunder- 
busses, Corsican,  Catalan,  and  dagger  knives, 
Malay  kreeses,  revolvers  with  spring-bayonets, 
Carib  and  flint  arrows,  knuckle-dusters,  life- 
preservers,  Hottentot  clubs,  Mexican  lassoes, — 
now,  can  you  expect  me  to  name  the  rest? 
Upon  the  whole  fell  a  fierce  sunlight,  which 
made  the  blades  and  the  brass  butt-plate  of  the 
muskets  gleam  as  if  all  the  more  to  set  your 
flesh  creeping.  Still,  the  beholder  was  soothed 
a  little  by  the  tame  air  of  order  and  tidiness 
reigning  over  the  arsenal.  Everything  was  in 
place,  brushed,  dusted,  labeled,  as  in  a  museum; 


14  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

from   point  to   point   the   eye   descried   some 
obliging  little  card  reading: 


Poisoned  Arrows! 

Do  not  touch! 


Or, 


Loaded! 

Take  care,  please! 


If  it  had  not  been  for  these  cautions  I  never 
should  have  dared  venture  in. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  was  an  occasional 
table,  on  which  stood  a  decanter  of  rum,  a 
siphon  of  soda-water,  a  Turkish  tobacco-pouch, 
"  Captain  Cook's  Voyages,"  the  Indian  tales  of 
Fenimore  Cooper  and  Gustave  Aimard,  stories 
of  hunting  the  bear,  eagle,  elephant,  and  so  on. 
Lastly,  beside  the  table  sat  a  man  of  between 
forty  and  forty-five,  short,  stout,  thick-set, 
ruddy,  with  flaming  eyes  and  a  strong  stubby 
beard,  he  wore  flannel  tights,  and  was  in  his 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  15 

shirt  sleeves,  one  hand  held  a  book,  and  the 
other  brandished  a  very  large  pipe  with  an  iron 
bowl-cap.  Whilst  reading  heaven  only  knows 
what  startling  adventure  of  scalp-hunters,  he 
pouted  out  his  lower  lip  in  a  terrifying  way, 
which  gave  the  honest  phiz  of  the  man  living 
placidly  on  his  means  the  same  impression  of 
kindly  ferocity  which  abounded  throughout  the 
house. 

This  man  was  Tartarin  himself — the  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon,  the  great,  dreadnought,  incompar- 
able Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  GENERAL  GLANCE  BESTOWED  UPON  THE  GOOD 
TOWN  OF  TARASCON,  AND  A  PARTICULAR  ONE 
ON  "  THE  CAP-POPPERS." 

AT  the  time  I  am  telling  of,  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon  had  not  become  the  present-day  Tar- 
tarin, the  great  one  so  popular  in  the  whole 
South  of  France;  but  yet  he  was  even  then  the 
cock  of  the  walk  at  Tarascon. 

Let  us  show  whence  arose  this  sovereignty. 

In  the  first  place  you  must  know  that  every- 
body is  shooting  mad  in  these  parts,  from  the 
greatest  to  the  least.  The  chase  is  the  local  craze, 
and  so  it  has  ever  been  since  the  mythological 
times  when  the  Tarasque,  as  the  county  dragon 
was  called,  flourished  himself  and  his  tail  in  the 
town  marshes,  and  entertained  shooting  parties 
got  up  against  him.  So  you  see  the  passion  has 
lasted  a  goodish  bit. 

It  follows  that,  every  Sunday  morning,  Taras- 

16 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  17 

con  flies  to  arms,  lets  loose  the  dogs  of  the  hunt, 
and  rushes  out  of  its  walls,  with  game-bag  slung 
and  fowling-piece  on  the  shoulder,  together 
with  a  hurly-burly  of  hounds,  cracking  of 
whips,  and  blowing  of  whistles  and  hunting- 
horns.  It's  splendid  to  see!  Unfortunately, 
there's  a  lack  of  game,  an  absolute  dearth. 

Stupid  as  the  brute  creation  is,  you  can 
readily  understand  that,  in  time,  it  learnt  some 
distrust. 

For  five  leagues  around  about  Tarascon, 
forms,  lairs,  and  burrows  are  empty,  and  nest- 
ing-places abandoned.  You'll  not  find  a  single 
quail  or  blackbird,  one  little  leveret,  or  the 
tiniest  tit.  And  yet  the  pretty  hillocks  are 
mightily  tempting,  sweet  smelling  as  they  are  of 
myrtle,  lavender,  and  rosemary;  and  the  fine 
muscatels  plumped  out  with  sweetness  even 
unto  bursting,  as  they  spread  along  the  banks 
of  the  Rhone,  are  deucedly  tempting  too.  True, 
true;  but  Tarascon  lies  behind  all  this,  and 
Tarascon  is  down  in  the  black  books  of  the 
world  of  fur  and  feather.  The  very  birds  of 


18  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

passage  have  ticked  it  off  on  their  guide-books, 
and  when  the  wild  ducks,  coming  down  towards 
the  Camargue  in  long  triangles,  spy  the  town 
steeples  from  afar,  the  outermost  flyers  squawk 
out  loudly: 

"Lookout!  there's  Tarascon!  give  Tarascon 
the  go-by,  duckies!" 

And  the  flocks  take  a  swerve. 

In  short,  as  far  as  game  goes,  there's  not  a 
specimen  left  in  the  land  save  one  old-  rogue  of 
a  hare,  escaped  by  miracle  from  the  massacres, 
who  is  stubbornly  determined  to  stick  to  it  all 
his  life!  He  is  very  well  known  at  Tarascon, 
and  a  name  has  been  given  him.  "  Rapid  "  is 
what  they  call  him.  It  is  known  that  he  has 
his  form  on  M.  Bompard's  grounds — which,  by 
the  way,  has  doubled  ay,  tripled,  the  value  of 
the  property — but  nobody  has  yet  managed  to 
lay  him  low.  At  present,  only  two  or  three 
inveterate  fellows  worry  themselves  about  him. 
The  rest  have  given  him  up  as  a  bad  job,  and 
old  Rapid  has  long  ago  passed  into  the  legend- 
ary world,  although  your  Tarasconer  is  very 


Tartarm  of  Tarascon.  19 

slightly  superstitious  naturally,  and  would  eat 
cock-robins  on  toast,  or  the  swallow,  which  is 
Our  Lady's  own  bird,  for  that  matter,  if  he 
could  find  any. 

"  But  that  won't  do!"'  you  will  say.  Inas- 
much as  game  is  so  scarce,  what  can  the  sports- 
men do  every  Sunday? 

What  can  they  do? 

Why,  goodness  gracious!  they  go  out  into  the 
real  country  two  or  three  leagues  from  town. 
They  gather  in  knots  of  five  or  six,  recline  tran- 
quilly in  the  shade  of  some  well,  old  wall,  or 
olive  tree,  extract  from  their  game-bags  a  good- 
sized  piece  of  boiled  beef,  raw  onions,  a  sausage, 
and  anchovies,  and  commence  a  next  to  endless 
snack,  washed  down  with  one  of  those  nice 
Bhone  wines,  which  sets  a  toper  laughing  and 
singing.  After  that,  when  thoroughly  braced 
up,  they  rise,  whistle  the  dogs  to  heel,  set  the 
guns  on  half-cock,  and  go  "  on  the  shoot " — 
another  way  of  saying  that  every  man  plucks  off 
his  cap,  "  shies  "  it  up  with  all  his  might,  and 


20  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

pops  it  on  the  fly  with  No.  5,  6,  or  2  shot,  ac- 
cording to  what  he  is  loaded  for. 

The  man  who  lodges  most  shot  in  his  cap  is 
hailed  as  king  of  the  hunt,  and  stalks  back  tri- 
umphantly at  dusk  into  Tarascon,  with  his  rid- 
dled cap  on  the  end  of  his  gun-barrel,  amid  any 
quantity  of  dog-barks  and  horn-blasts. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  cap-selling  is  a,  fine 
business  in  the  town.  There  are  even  some  hat- 
ters who  sell  hunting-caps  ready  shot,  torn,  and 
perforated  for  the  bad  shots;  but  the  only  buyer 
known  is  the  chemist  Bezuquet.  This  is  dis- 
honorable! 

As  a  marksman  at  caps,  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con never  had  his  match. 

Every  Sunday  morning  out  he  would  march 
in  a  new  cap,  and  back  he  would  strut  every 
Sunday  evening  with  a  mere  thing  of  shreds. 
The  loft  of  Baobab  Villa  was  full  of  these  glor- 
ious trophies.  Hence  all  Tarascon  acknowl- 
edged him  as  master;  and  as  Tartarin  thor- 
oughly understood  hunting,  and  had  read  all 
the  handbooks  of  all  possible  kinds  of  venery, 


Turtarin  of  Tarascon  t 


Tartarin's  garden. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  21 

from  cap-popping  to  Burmese  tiger-shooting, 
the  sportsmen  constituted  him  their  great  cyne- 
getical  judge,  and  took  him  for  referee  and  ar- 
bitrator in  all  their  differences. 

Between  three  and  four  daily,  at  Costecalde 
the  gunsmith's,  a  stout,  stern  pipe-smoker 
might  be  seen  in  a  green  leather-covered  arm- 
chair in  the  centre  of  the  shop  crammed  with 
cap-poppers,  they  all  on  foot  and  wrangling. 
This  was  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  delivering  judg- 
ment— Ximrod  plus  Solomon. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"NAW,  NAW,  NAW  !"      THE  GENERAL  GLANCE 
PROTRACTED  UPON  THE  GOOD  TOWN. 

AFTER  the  craze  for  sporting,  the  lusty  Taras- 
con  race  cherishes  one  for  love  ballad-singing. 
There's  no  believing  what  a  quantity  of  ballads 
is  used  up  in  that  little  region.  All  the  senti- 
mental stuff  turning  into  sere  and  yellow  leaves 
in  the  oldest  portfolios,  are  to  be  found  in  full 
pristine  lustre  in  Tarascon.  Ay,  the  entire  col- 
lection. Every  family  has  its  own  pet,  as  is 
known  to  the  town. 

For  instance,  it  is  an  established  fact  that  this 
is  the  chemist  Bezuquet's  family's: 

"  Thou  art  the  fair  star  that  I  adore!" 

The  gunmaker  Costecalde's  family's: 

"  Would'st  them  come  to  the  land 
Where  the  log-cabins  rise?" 

The  official  registrar's  family's: 

"  If  J  wore  a  coat  of  invisible  green, 
Do  you  think  for  a  moment  I  could  be  seen?" 

22 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  23 

And  so  on  for  the  whole  of  Tarascon.  Two  or 
three  times  a  week  there  were  parties  where 
they  were  sung.  The  singularity  was  their  be- 
ing always  the  same,  and  that  the  honest  Taras- 
coners  had  never  had  an  inclination  to  change 
them  during  the  long,  long  time  they  had  been 
harping  on  them.  They  were  handed  down 
from  father  to  son  in  the  families,  without  any- 
body improving  on  them  or  Bowdlerising  them: 
they  were  sacred.  Xever  did  it  occur  to  Coste- 
calde's  mind  to  sing  the  Bezuquets',  or  the  Bezu- 
quets  to  try  Costecalde's.  And  yet  you  may 
believe  that  they  ought  to  know  by  heart  what 
they  had  been  singing  for  two-score  years!  But, 
nay!  everybody  stuck  to  his  own,  and  they  were 
all  contented. 

In  ballad-singing,  as  in  cap-popping,  Tar- 
tarin was  still  the  foremost.  His  superiority 
over  his  fellow-townsmen  consisted  in  his  not 
having  any  one  song  of  his  own,  but  in  know- 
ing the  lot,  the  whole,  mind  you!  But — there's 
a  but — it  was  the  devil's  own  work  to  get  him 
to  sing  them. 


24  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Surfeited  early  in  life  with  his  drawing-room 
successes,  our  hero  preferred  by  far  burying 
himself  in  his  hunting  story-books,  or  spending 
the  evening  at  the  club,  to  making  a  personal 
exhibition  before  a  Nimes  piano  between  a  pair 
of  home-made  candles.     These  musical  parades 
seemed  beneath  him.     Nevertheless,  at  whiles, 
when  there  was  a  harmonic  party  at  Bezuquet's, 
he  would  drop  into  the  chemist's  shop  as  if  by 
chance,  and,  after  a  deal  of  pressure,  consent 
to  do  the  grand  duo  in  Robert  k  Diable  with  old 
Madame  Bezuquet.     Whoso  never  heard  that, 
never  heard  anything!     For  my  part,  even  if  I 
lived  a  hundred  years,  I  should  always  see  the 
mighty  Tartarin  solemnly  stepping  up  to  the 
piano,  setting  his  arms  akimbo,  working  up  his 
tragic  mien,  and,  beneath  the  green  reflection 
from  the  show-bottles  in  the  window,  trying  to 
give  his  pleasant  visage  the  fierce  and  satanic 
expression  of  Eobert  the  Devil.     Hardly  would 
he  fall  into  position  before  the  whole  audience 
would  be  shuddering  with  the  foreboding  that 
something  uncommon  was  at  hand.       After  a 


Tartarin  of  Taraseon.  25 

hush,  old  Madame  Bezuquet  would  commence 
to  her  own  accompaniment: 

"  Robert,   my    love    is   thine! 

To  thee  I  my  faith  did  plight, 
Thou  seest  my  affright, — 

Mercy  for  thine  own  sake, 
And  mercy  for  mine!" 

In  an  undertone  she  would  add:  "  Now,  then, 
Tartarin!"  Whereupon  Tartarin  of  Taraseon, 
with  crooked  arms,  clenched  fists,  and  quivering 
nostrils,  would  roar  three  times  in  a  formidable 
voice,  rolling  like  a  thunder-clap  in  the  bowels 
of  the  instrument: 

"No!  no!  no!"  which,  like  the  thorough 
southerner  he  was,  he  pronounced  nasally  as 
"Naw!  naw!  naw!"  Then  would  old  Madame 
Bezuquet  again  sing: 

"  Mercy  for  thine  own  sake, 
And  mercy  for  mine!" 

"Naw!    naw  !naw!"   bellowed  Tartarin  at  his 
loudest,  and  there  the  gem  ended. 

Not  long,  you  see;  but  it  was  so  handsomely 
voiced  forth,  so  clearly  gesticulated,  and  so  dia- 
bolical, that  a  tremor  of  terror  overran  the 


26  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

chemist's  shop,  and  the  "Naw!  naw!  naw!" 
would  be  encored  several  times  running. 

Upon  this  Tartarin  would  sponge  his  brow, 
smile  on  the  ladies,  wink  to  the  sterner  sex,  and 
withdraw  upon  his  triumph  to  go  remark  at  the 
club  with  a  trifling  offhand  air: 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  Bezuquets', 
where  I  was  forced  to  sing  'em  the  duo  from 
Robert  k  Diable" 

The  cream  of  the  joke  was  that  he  really  be- 
lieved it! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

" THEY  !  " 

CHIEFLY  to  the  account  of  these  diverse  tal- 
ents did  Tartarin  owe  his  lofty  position  in  the 
town  of  Tarascon.  Talking  of  captivating, 
though,  this  deuce  of  a  fellow  knew  how  to  en- 
snare everybody.  Why,  the  army,  at  Tarascon, 
was  for  Tartarin.  The  brave  commandant, 
Bravida,  honorary  captain  retired — in  the  Mili- 
tary Clothing  Factory  Department — called  him. 
a  game  fellow;  and  you  may  well  admit  that  the 
warrior  knew  all  about  game  fellows,  he  played 
such  a  capital  knife  and  fork  on  game  of  all 
kinds. 

So  was  the  legislature  on  Tartarin's  side. 
Two  or  three  times,  in  open  court,  the  old  chief 
judge,  Ladevese,  had  said,  in  alluding  to  him: 

"He  is  a  character!" 

Lastly,  the  masses  were  for  Tartarin.  He 
had  become  the  swell  bruiser,  the  aristocratic 

27 


Tartarin  of  Tarwcon. 

pugilist,  the  crack  bully  of  the  local  Corinthians 
for  the  Tarasconers,  from  his  build,  bearing, 
style — that  aspect  of  a  guard's-trumpeter's 
charger  which  fears  no  noise;  his  reputation  as  a 
hero  coming  from  nobody  kne\v  whence  or  for 
what,  and  some  scramblings  for  coppers  and  a 
few  kicks  to  the  little  ragamuffins  basking  at  his 
doorway. 

Along  the  waterside,  when  Tartarin  came 
home  from  hunting  on  Sunday  evenings,  with 
his  cap  on  the  muzzle  of  his  gun,  and  his  fustian 
shooting-jacket  belted  in  tightly,  the  sturdy 
river-lightermen  would  respectfully  bob,  and 
blinking  towards  the  huge  biceps  swelling  out 
his  arms,  would  mutter  among  one  another  in 
admiration: 

"Now,  there's  a  powerful  chap  if  you  like! 
he  has  double-muscles!" 

"Double  muscles!"  why,  you  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing  outside  of  Tarascon! 

For  all  this,  with  all  his  numberless  parts, 
double-muscles,  the  popular  favor,  and  the  so 
precious  esteem  of  brave  Commandant  Bravida, 


Tariarin  of  Taraseon.  29 

ex-captain  (in  the  Army  Clothing  Factory),  Tar- 
tarin  was  not  happy:  this  life  in  a  petty  town 
weighed  upon  him  and  suffocated  him. 

The  great  man  of  Taraseon  was  bored  in 
Taraseon. 

The  fact  is,  for  a  heroic  temperament  like  his, 
a  wild  adventurous  spirit  which  dreamt  of  noth- 
ing but  battles,  races  across  the  pampas,  mighty 
battues,  desert  sands,  blizzards  and  typhoons, 
it  was  not  enough  to  go  out  every  Sunday  to 
pop  at  a  cap,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  to  ladle 
out  casting-votes  at  the  gunmaker's.  Poor  dear 
great  man!  If  this  existence  were  only  pro- 
longed, there  would  be  sufficient  tedium  in  it  to 
kill  him  with  consumption. 

In  vain  did  he  surround  himself  with  baobabs 
and  other  African  trees,  to  widen  his  horizon, 
and  some  little  to  forget  his  club  and  the  mar- 
ket-place; in  vain  did  he  pile  weapon  upon 
weapon,  and  Malay  kreese  upon  Malay  kreese;  in 
vain  did  he  cram  with  romances,  endeavoring 
like  the  immortal  Don  Quixote  to  wrench  him- 
self by  the  vigor  of  his  fancy  out  of  the  talons  of 


30  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

pitiless  reality.  Alas!  all  that  he  did  to  ap- 
pease his  thirst  for  deeds  of  daring  only  helped 
to  augment  it.  The  sight  of  all  the  murderous 
implements  kept  him  in  a  perpetual  stew  of 
wrath  and  exaltation.  His  revolvers,  repeating 
rifles,  and  ducking-guns  shouted  "Battle!  bat- 
tle!" out  of  their  mouths.  Through  the  twigs 
of  his  baobab,  the  tempest  of  great  voyages  and 
journeys  soughed  and  blew  bad  advice.  To 
finish  him  came  Gustave  Aimard,  Mayne  Reid, 
and  Fenimore  Cooper. 

Oh,  how  many  times  did  Tartarin  with  a  howl 
spring  up  on  the  sultry  summer  afternoons, 
when  he  was  reading  alone  amidst  his  blades, 
points,  and  edges;  how  many  times  did  he  dash 
down  his  book  and  rush  to  the  wall  to  unhook 
a  deadly  arm!  The  poor  man  forgot  he  was  at 
home  in  Tarascon,  in  his  underclothes,  and  with 
a  handkerchief  round  his  head.  lie  would 
translate  his  readings  into  action,  and,  goading 
himself  with  his  own  voice,  shout  out  whilst 
swinging  a  battle-axe  or  tomahawk: 

"  Now,  only  let  'em  come!" 

"Them"?   who  were  they? 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  31 

Tartarin  did  not  himself  any  too  clearly  un- 
derstand. "  They  "  was  all  that  should  be  at- 
tacked and  fought  with,  all  that  bites,  claws, 
scalps,  whoops,  and  yells — the  Sioux  Indians 
dancing  around  the  war-stake  to  which  the  un- 
fortunate pale-face  prisoner  is  lashed.  The 
grizzly  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  who  wobbles 
on  his  hind  legs,  and  licks  himself  with  a  tongue 
full  of  blood.  The  Touareg,  too,  in  the  desert, 
the  Malay  pirate,  the  brigand  of  the  Abruzzi — 
in  short,  "they"  was  warfare,  travel,  adventure, 
and  glory. 

But,  alas!  it  was  to  no  avail  that  the  fearless 
Tarasconer  called  for  and  defied  them;  never  did 
they  come.  Odsboddikins!  what  would  they 
have  come  to  do  in  Tarascon? 

Nevertheless,  Tartarin  always  expected  to  run 
up  against  them,  particularly  some  evening  in 
going  to  the  club. 


CHAPTER   V. 

HOW  TARTARIN  WENT  ROUND  TO  HIS  CLUB. 

LITTLE,  indeed,  beside  Tartarin  of  Tarascon, 
arming  himself  cap-a-pie  to  go  to  his  club  at 
nine,  an  hour  after  the  retreat  had  sounded  on 
the  bugle,  was  the  Templar  Knight  preparing 
for  a  sortie  upon  the  infidel,  the  Chinese  tiger 
equipping  himself  for  combat,  or  the  Comanche 
warrior  painting  up  for  going  on  the  war-path. 

"All  hands  make  ready  for  action!"  as  the 
men-of-war's  men  say. 

In  his  left  hand  Tartarin  took  a  steel-pointed 
knuckle-duster;  in  the  right  he  carried  a  sword- 
cane;  in  his  left  pocket  a  life-preserver;  in  the 
right  a  revolver.  On  his  chest,  betwixt  outer 
and  under  garment,  lay  a  Malay  kreese.  But 
never  any  poisoned  arrows — they  are  weapons 
altogether  too  unfair. 

Before  starting, 'in  the  silence  and  obscurity 
of  his  study,  he  exercised  himself  for  a  while, 

32 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  33 

warding  off  imaginary  cuts  and  thrusts,  lunging 
at  the  wall,  and  giving  his  muscles  play;  then 
he  took  his  master-key  and  went  through  the 
garden  leisurely;  without  hurrying,  mark  you. 
"  Cool  and  calm — British  courage,  that  is  the 
true  sort,  gentlemen."  At  the  garden  end  he 
opened  the  heavy  iron  door,  violently  and 
abruptly  so  that  it  should  slam  against  the  outer 
wall.  If  "they"  had  been  skulking  behind  it, 
you  may  wager  they  would  have  been  jam.  Un- 
happily, they  were  not  there. 

The  way  being  open,  out  Tartarin  would 
sally,  quickly  glancing  to  the  right  and  left,  ere 
banging  the  door  to  and  fastening  it  smartly 
with  double-locking.  Then,  on  the  way. 

Not  so  much  as  a  cat  upon  the  Avignon  road 
— all  the  doors  closed,  and  no  lights  in  the  case- 
ments. All  was  black,  except  for  the  parish 
lamps,  well  spaced  apart,  blinking  in  the  river 
mist. 

Calm  and  proud,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
marched  on  in  the  night,  ringing  his  heels  with 
regularity,  and  sending  sparks  out  of  the  pav- 


34  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

ing-stones  with  the  ferrule  of  his  stick.  Whether 
in  avenues,  streets,  or  lanes,  he  took  care  to  keep 
in  the  middle  of  the  road — an  excellent  method 
of  precaution,  allowing  one  to  see  danger  com- 
ing, and,  above  all,  to  avoid  any  droppings  from 
windows,  as  happens  after  dark  in  Tarascon  and 
the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh.  On  seeing  so 
much  prudence  in  Tartarin,  pray  do  not  con- 
clude that  Tartarin  had  any  fear — dear,  no!  he 
only  was  on  his  guard. 

The  best  proof  that  Tartarin  was  not  scared 
is,  that  instead  of  going  to  the  club  by  the  short- 
est cut,  he  went  over  the  town  by  the  longest 
and  darkest  way  round,  through  a  mass  of  vile, 
paltry  alleys,  at  the  mouth  of  which  the  Rhone 
could  be  seen  ominously  gleaming.  The  poor 
knight  constantly  hoped  that,  beyond  the  turn 
of  one  of  these  cut-throats'  haunts,  "they"  would 
leap  from  the  shadow  and  fall  on  his  back.  I 
warrant  you,  "  they  "  would  have  been  warmly 
received,  though;  but,  alack!  by  reason  of  some 
nasty  meanness  of  destiny,  never  indeed  did 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  enjoy  the  luck  to  meet  any 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  35 

ugly  customers — not  so  much  as  a  dog  or  a 
drunken  man — nothing  at  all! 

Still,  there  were  false  alarms  somewhiles.  He 
would  catch  a  sound  of  steps  and  muffled  voices. 

"'Ware  hawks!"  Tartarin  would  mutter,  and 
stop  short,  as  if  taking  root  on  the  spot,  scruti- 
nizing the  gloom,  sniffing  the  wind,  even  glue- 
ing his  ear  to  the  ground  in  the  orthodox  Red 
Indian  mode.  The  steps  would  draw  nearer, 
and  the  voices  grow  more  distinct,  till  no  more 
doubt  was  possible.  "  They  "  were  coming — in 
fact,  here  "  they  "  were! 

Steady,  with  eye  afire  and  heaving  breast, 
Tartarin  would  gather  himself  like  a  jaguar  in 
readiness  to  spring  forward  whilst  uttering  his 
war-cry,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  out  of  the  thick 
of  the  murkiness,  he  would  hear  honest  Taras- 
conian  voices  quite  tranquilly  hailing  him  with: 

"Hullo!  you,  by  Jove!  it's  Tartarin!  Good- 
night, old  fellow!" 

Maledictions  upon  it!  it  was  the  chemist 
Bezuquet,  with  his  family,  coming  from  singing 
their  family  ballad  at  Costecalde's. 


36  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  Oh,  good-even,  good-even!"  Tartarin  would 
growl,  furious  at  his  blunder,  and  plunging 
fiercely  into  the  gloom  with  his  cane  waved  on 
high. 

On  arriving  in  the  street  where  stood  his 
club-house,  the  dauntless  one  would  linger  yet 
a  moment,  walking  up  and  down  before  the 
portals  ere  entering.  But,  finally,  weary  of 
awaiting  "  them,"  and  certain  "  they  "  would 
not  show  "  themselves,"  he  would  fling  a  last 
glare  of  defiance  into  the  shades  and  snarl 
wrath  fully: 

"  Nothing,  nothing  at  all!  there  never  is  noth- 
ing!" 

Upon  which  double  negation,  which  he  meant 
as  a  stronger  affirmative,  the  worthy  champion 
would  walk  in  to  play  his  game  of  bezique  with 
the  commandant. 


Tartar,,,,  of  Tarascon  S 

As  he  stared  Leo  out  of  countenance. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   TWO   TARTAKINS. 

ANSWER  me,  you  will  say,  how  the  mischief 
is  it  that  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  never  left  Taras- 
con  with  all  this  mania  for  adventure,  need  of 
powerful  sensations,  and  folly  about  travel, 
rides,  and  journeys  from  the  Pole  to  the  Equa- 
tor? 

For  that  is  a  fact:  up  to  the  age  of  five-and- 
forty,  the  dreadless  Tarasconian  had  never  once 
slept  outside  his  own  room.  He  had  not  even 
taken  that  obligatory  trip  to  Marseilles  which 
every  sound  Provencal  makes  upon  coming  of 
age.  The  most  of  his  knowledge  included 
Beaucaire,  and  yet  that's  not  far  from  Tarascon,. 
there  being  merely  the  bridge  to  go  over.  Un- 
fortunately, this  rascally  bridge  has  so  often 
been  blown  away  by  the  gales,  it  is  so  long  and 
frail,  and  the  Rhone  has  such  a  width  at  this. 

37 


38  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

spot  that — well,  faith!  you  understand!     Tar- 
tarin of  Tarascon  preferred  terra  firma. 

We  are  afraid  we  must  make  a  clean  breast 
of  it:  in  our  hero  there  were  two  very  distinct 
characters.  Some  Father  of  the  Church  has 
said:  "I  feel  there  are  two  men  in  me."  He 
would  have  spoken  truly  in  saying  this  ahout 
Tartarin,  who  carried  in  his  frame  the  soul  of 
Don  Quixote,  the  same  chivalric  impulses, 
heroic  ideal,  and  crankiness  for  the  grandiose 
and  romantic;  but,  worse  is  the  luck!  he  had 
not  the  body  of  the  celebrated  hidalgo,  that  thin 
and  meagre  apology  for  a  body,  on  which  ma- 
terial life  failed  to  take  a  hold;  one  that  could 
get  through  twenty  nights  without  its  breast- 
plate being  unbuckled  off,  and  forty-eight  hours 
on  a  handful  of  rice.  On  the  contrary,  Tar- 
tarin's  body  was  a  stout  honest  bully  of  a  body, 
very  fat,  very  weighty,  most  sensual  and  fond 
of  coddling,  highly  touchy,  full  of  low-class  ap- 
petite and  homely  requirements — the  short, 
paunchy  body  on  stumps  of  the  immortal  San- 
•cho  Panza. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  39 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panzo  in  the  one 
same  man!  you  will  readily  comprehend  what 
a  cat-and-dog  couple  they  made!  what  strife! 
what  clapperclawing!  Oh,  the  fine  dialogue  for 
Lucian  or  Saint-Evremond  to  write,  between  the 
two  Tartarins — Quixote-Tartarin  and  Sancho- 
Tartarin!  Quixote-Tarttrin  firing  up  on  the 
stories  of  Gustave  Aimard,  and  shouting:  "  Up 
and  at  'em!"  and  Sancho-Tartarin  thinking  only 
of  the  rheumatics  ahead,  and  murmuring:  "I 
mean  to  stay  at  home.'' 

THE    DUEL. 

QUIXOTE-TARTARIN.  SANCHO-TARTARIN. 

( Highly  excited. )  (  Quite  calmly. ) 

Cover  yourself  with  glory,  Tartarin,    cover    yourself 

Tartarin.  with  flannel. 

( Still  more  excitedly. )  ( Still  more  calmly. ) 

O  for  the  terrible  double-  0  for  the  thick  knitted 

barrelled  rifle!     0  for  waistcoats!    and  warm 

bowie  -  knives,    lassoes  knee-caps  !    0   for   the 

and  moccasins !  welcome    padded    caps 

with  ear-flaps  ! 

(Above  all  self-control. )  ( Ringing  up  the  maid.) 

A  battle-axe !    fetch  me  a  Now,  then,  Jeannette,  do 

battle-axe  !  bring  up  that  chocolate! 


40  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Whereupon  Jeannette  would  appear  with  an 
unusually  good  cup  of  chocolate,  just  right  in 
warmth,  sweetly  smelling,  and  with  the  play  of 
light  on  watered  silk  upon  its  unctuous  surface, 
and  with  succulent  grilled  steak  flavored  with 
anise-seed,  which  would  set  Sancho-Tartarin  off 
on  the  broad  grin,  and  into  a  laugh  that 
drowned  the  shouts  of  Quixote-Tartarin. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
never  had  left  Tarascon. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TARTARIN. THE    EUROPEANS   AT    SHANGHAI. 

COMMERCE. — THE    TARTARS. — CAN    TARTARIN 

OF      TARASCON      BE      AN       IMPOSTOR  ? THE 

MIRAGE. 

UNDER  one  conjunction  of  circumstances, 
Tartarin  did,  however,  once  almost  start  out 
upon  a  great  voyage. 

The  three  brothers  Garcio-Camus,  natives  of 
Tarascon,  established  in  business  at  Shanghai, 
offered  him  the  managership  of  one  of  their 
branches  there.  This  undoubtedly  presented 
the  kind  of  life  he  hankered  after.  Plenty  of 
active  business,  a  whole  army  of  under-strappers 
to  order  about,  and  connections  with  Russia, 
Persia,  Turkey  in  Asia — in  short,  to  be  a  mer- 
chant prince. 

In  Tartarin's  mouth,  the  title  of  Merchant 
Prince  thundered  out  as  something  stunning! 

The  house  of  Garcio-Camus  had  the  further 

41 


42  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

advantage  of  sometimes  being  favored  with  a 
call  from  the  Tartars.  Then  the  doors  would 
be  slammed  shut,  all  the  clerks  flew  to  arms, 
up  ran  the  consular  flag,  and  zizz!  phit!  bang! 
•out  of  the  windows  upon  the  Tartars. 

I  need  not  tell  you  with  what  enthusiasm 
•Quixote-Tartarin  clutched  this  proposition;  sad 
to  say,  Sancho-Tartarin  did  not  see  it  in  the  same 
light,  and,  as  he  was  the  stronger  party,  it  never 
came  to  anything.  But  in  the  town  there  was 
much  talk  about  it.  Would  he  go  or  would  he 
not?  "I'll  lay  he  will"— and  "I'll  wager  he 
won't!"  It  was  the  event  of  the  week.  In  the 
upshot,  Tartarin  did  not  depart,  but  the  mat- 
ter redounded  to  his  credit  none  the  less.  Go- 
ing or  not  going  to  Shanghai  was  all  one  to 
Tarascon.  Tartarin's  journey  was  so  much 
talked  about  that  people  got  to  believe  he  had 
done  it  and  returned,  and  at  the  club  in  the  eve- 
ning members  would  actually  ask  for  informa- 
tion on  life  at  Shanghai,  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms and  climate,  about  opium,  and  commerce. 

Deeply  read  up,  Tartarin  would  graciously 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  43 

furnish  the  particulars  desired,  and,  in  the  end, 
the  good  fellow  was  not  quite  sure  himself  about 
not  having  gone  to  Shanghai,  so  that,  after  re- 
lating for  the  hundredth  time  how  the  Tartars 
came  down  on  the  trading  post,  it  would  most 
naturally  happen  him  to  add: 

"  Then  I  made  my  men  take  up  arms  and 
hoist  the  consular  flag,  and  zizz!  phit!  bang! 
out  of  the  windows  upon  the  Tartars." 

On  hearing  this,  the  whole  club  would  quiver. 

"  But  according  to  that,  this  Tartarin  of 
yours  is  an  awful  liar/'' 

"No,  no,  a  thousand  times  over,  no!  Tar- 
tarin was  no  liar." 

"But  the  man  ought  to  know  that  he  has 
never  been  to  Shanghai  " 

"Why,  of  course,  he  knows  that;  but 
still  "— 

"But  still,"  you  see — mark  that!  It  is  high 
time  for  the  law  to  be  laid  down  once  for  all 
on  the  reputation  as  drawers  of  the  long  bow 
which  Northerners  fling  at  Southerners.  There 
are  no  Baron  Munchausens  in  the  south  of 


44  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

France,  neither  at  Mmes  nor  Marseilles,  Tou- 
louse nor  Tarascon.  The  Southerner  does  not 
deceive  but  is  self -deceived.  He  does  not  al- 
ways tell  the  cold-drawn  truth,  but  he  believes 
he  does.  His  falsehood  is  not  any  such  thing, 
but  a  kind  of  mental  mirage. 

Yes,  purely  mirage!  The  better  to  follow  me, 
you  should  actually  follow  me  into  the  South, 
and  you  will  see  I  am  right.  You  have  only  to 
look  at  that  Lucifer's  own  country,  where  the 
:sun  transmogrifies  everything,  and  magnifies  it 
beyond  life-size.  The  little  hills  of  Provence  are 
no  bigger  than  the  Butte  Montmartre,  but  they 
will  loom  up  like  the  Rocky  Mountains;  the 
Square  House  at  Nimes — a  mere  model  to  put 
•on  your  sideboard — will  seem  grander  than  St. 
Peter's.  You  will  see — in  brief,  the  only  exag- 
gerator  in  the  South  is  Old  Sol,  for  he  does  en- 
large everything  he  touches.  What  was  Sparta 
in  its  days  of  splendor?  a  pitiful  hamlet.  What 
was  Athens?  at  the  most,  a  second-class  town; 
and  yet  in  history  both  appear  to  us  as  enormous 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  45 

cities.     This  is  a  sample  of  what  the  sun  can 
do.  ' 

Are  you  going  to  be  astonished  after  this  that 
the  same  sun  falling  upon  Tarascon  should  have 
made  of  an  ex-captain  in  the  Army  Clothing 
Factor}-,  like  Bravida,  the  "brave  command- 
ant;" of  a  sprout  an  Indian  fig-tree;  and  of  a 
man  who  had  missed  going'  to  Shanghai  one 
who  had  been  there? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MITAINE'S  MENAGERIE. —  A  LION  FROM  THE 
ATLAS  AT  TARASCON. — A  SOLEMN  AND  FEAR- 
SOME CONFRONTATION. 

EXHIBITING  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  as  we  are, 
in  his  private  life,  before  Fame  kissed  his  brow 
and  garlanded  him  with  her  well-worn  laurel 
wreath,  and  having  narrated  his  heroic  existence 
in  a  modest  state,  his  delights  and  sorrows,  his 
dreams  and  his  hopes,  let  us  hurriedly  skip  to 
the  grandest  pages  of  his  story,  and  to  the  singu- 
lar event  which  was  to  give  the  first  flight  to  his 
incomparable  career. 

It  happened  one  evening  at  Costecalde  the 
gunmaker's,  where  Tartarin  was  engaged  in 
showing  several  sportsmen  the  working  of  the 
needle-gun,  then  in  its  first  novelty.  The  door 
suddenly  flew  open,  and  in  rushed  a  bewildered 
cap-popper,  howling  "A  lion,  a  lion!"  General 
was  the  alarm,  stupor,  uproar  and  tumult.  Tar- 

46 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  47 

tarin  prepared  to  resist  cavalry  with  the  bay- 
onet, whilst  Costecalde  ran  to  shut  the  door. 
The  sportsman  was  surrounded  and  pressed  and 
questioned,  and  here  follows  what  he  told  them: 
Mitaine's  Menagerie,  returning  from  Beaucaire 
Fair,  had  consented  to  stay  over  a  few  days  at 
Tarascon,  and  was  just  unpacking,  to  set  up  the 
show  on  the  Castle-green,  with  a  lot  of  boas, 
seals,  crocodiles,  and  a  magnificent  lion  from  the 
Atlas  Mountains. 

An  African  lion  in  Tarascon? 

Xever  in  the  memory  of  living  man  had  the 
like  been. seen.  Hence  our  dauntless  cap-pop- 
pers looked  at  one  another  how  proudly!  What 
a  beaming  on  their  sunburned  visages!  and  in 
every  nook  of  Costecalde's  shop  what  hearty 
congratulatory  grips  of  the  hand  were  silently 
exchanged !  The  sensation  was  so  great  and  un- 
foreseen that  nobody  could  find  a  word  to  say — 
not  even  Tartarin. 

Blanched  and  agitated,  with  the  needle-gun 
still  in  his  fist,  he  brooded,  erect  before  the 
counter.  A  lion  from  the  Atlas  Range  at  pis- 


48  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

tol  range  from  him,  a  couple  of  strides  off  ?  a 
lion,  mind  you — the  beast  heroic  and  ferocious 
above  all  others,  the  King  of  the  Brute  Crea- 
tion, the  crowning  game  of  his  fancies,  some- 
thing like  the  leading  actor  in  the  ideal  com- 
pany which  played  such  splendid  tragedies  in 
his  mind's  eye.  A  lion,  heaven  be  thanked  ! 
and  from  the  Atlas,  to  boot  !  It  was  more  than 
the  great  Tartarin  could  bear. 

Suddenly  a  flush  of  blood  flew  into  his  face. 
His  eyes  flashed.  With  one  convulsive  move- 
ment he  shouldered  the  needle-gun,  and  turn- 
ing towards  the  brave  Commandant  Bravida 
(formerly  captain — the  Army  Clothing  De- 
partment, please  to  remember),  he  thundered  to 
him — 

"  Let's  go  have  a  look  at  him,  commandant." 
"  Here,    here,    I    say  !    that's   my    gun — my 
needle-gun  you  are  carrying  off,"  timidly  ven- 
tured the  wary  Costecalde;  but  Tartarin  had 
already  got  round  the  corner,  with  all  the  cap- 
poppers  proudly  lock-stepping  behind  him. 
When  they  arrived  at  the  menagerie,  they 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  49 

found  a  goodly  number  of  people  there.  Taras- 
con, heroic  but  too  long  deprived  of  sensational 
shows,  had  rushed  upon  Mitaine's  portable 
theatre,  and  had  taken  it  by  storm.  Hence  the 
voluminous  Madame  Mitaine  was  highly  con- 
tented. In  an  Arab  costume,  her  arms  bare  to 
the  elbow,  iron  anklets  on,  a  whip  in  one  hand 
and  a  plucked  though  live  pullet  in  the  other, 
the  noted  lady  was  doing  the  honors  of  the 
booth  to  the  Tarasconians;  and,  as  she  also  had 
"  double  muscles,"  her  success  was  almost  as 
great  as  her  animals'. 

The  entrance  of  Tartarin  with  the  gun  on  his 
shoulder  was  a  damper. 

All  our  good  Tarasconians,  who  had  been 
quite  tranquilly  strolling  before  the  cages,  un- 
armed and  with  no  distrust,  without  even  any 
idea  of  danger,  felt  momentary  apprehension, 
naturally  enough,  on  beholding  their  mighty 
Tartarin  rush  into  the  enclosure  with  his  for- 
midable engine  of  war.  There  must  be  some- 
thing to  fear  when  a  hero  like  he  was,  came 
weaponed  ;  so,  in  a  twinkling,  all  the  space 


50  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

along  the  cage  fronts  was  cleared.  The  young- 
sters burst  out  squalling  for  fear,  and  the 
women  looked  round  for  the  nearest  way  out. 
The  chemist  Bezuquet  made  off  altogether, 
alleging  that  he  was  going  home  for  his  gun. 

Gradually,  however,  Tartarin's  bearing  re- 
stored courage.  With  head  erect,  the  intrepid 
Tarasconian  slowly  and  calmly  made  the  circuit 
of  the  booth,  passing  the  seal's  tank  without 
stopping,  glancing  disdainfully  on  the  long  box 
filled  with  sawdust  in  which  the  boa  would  di- 
gest its  raw  fowl,  and  going  to  take  his  stand 
before  the  lion's  cage. 

A  terrible  and  solemn  confrontation,  this! 

The  lion  of  Tarascon  and  the  lion  of  Africa 
face  to  face! 

On  the  one  part,  Tartarin  erect,  with  his 
hamstrings  in  tension,  and  his  arms  folded  on 
his  gun  barrel  ;  on  the  other,  the  lion,  a  gigan- 
tic specimen,  humped  up  in  the  straw,  with 
blinking  orbs  and  brutish  mien,  resting  his 
huge  muzzle  and  tawny  full-bottomed  wig  on 
his  forepaws.  Both  calm  in  their  gaze. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  51 

SiDgular  thing!  whether  the  needle-gun  had 
given  him  "  the  needle,"  if  the  popular  idiom 
is  admissible,  or  that  he  scented  an  enemy  of 
his  race,  the  lion,  who  had  hitherto  regarded 
the  Tarasconians  with  sovereign  scorn,  and 
yawned  in  their  faces,  was  all  at  once  affected 
by  ire.  At  first  he  sniffed  ;  then  he  growled 
hollowly,  stretching  out  his  claws;  rising,  he 
tossed  his  head,  shook  his  mane,  opened  a  capa- 
cious maw,  and  belched  a  deafening  roar  at 
Tartarin. 

A  yell  of  fright  responded,  as  Tarascon  pre- 
cipitated itself  madly  towards  the  exit,  women 
and  children,  lightermen,  cap-poppers,  even 
the  brave  Commandant  Bravida  himself.  But, 
alone,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  not  budged. 
There  he  stood,  firm  and  resolute,  before  the 
cage,  lightnings  in  his  eyes,  and  on  his  lip  that 
gruesome  grin  with  which  all  the  town  was  fam- 
iliar. In  a  moment's  time,  when  all  the  cap- 
poppers,  some  little  fortified  by  his  bearing  and 
the  strength  of  the  bars,  re-approached  their 


52  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

leader,  they  heard  him  mutter,  as  he  stared  Leo 

out  of  countenance: 

"  Now,  this  is  something  like  a  hunt !  " 

All  the  rest  of  that  day,  never  a  word  farther 

could  they  draw  from  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SINGULAR   EFFECTS   OF   MENTAL   MIRAGE. 

CONFIXING  his  remarks  to  the  sentence  last 
recorded,  Tartarin  had  unfortunately  still  said 
overmuch. 

On  the  morrow,  there  was  nothing  talked 
about  through  town  but  the  near-at-hand  de- 
parture of  Tartarin  for  Algeria  and  lion-hunt- 
ing. You  are  all  witness,  dear  readers,  that 
the  honest  fellow  had  not  breathed  a  word  on 
that  head;  but,  you  know,  the  mirage  had  its 
usual  effect.  In  brief,  all  Tarascon  spoke  of 
nothing  but  the  departure. 

On  the  Old  Walk,  at  the  Club,  in  Coste- 
calde's,  friends  accosted  one  another  with  a 
startled  aspect: 

"And  furthermore,  you  know  the  news,  at 
least?" 

"And  furthermore,  rather?  Tartarin's  set- 
ting out  at  least  ?  " 

53 


54  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

For  at  Tarascon  all  phrases  begin  with  "  and 
furthermore,"  and  conclude  with  "  at  least," 
Avith  a  strong  local  accent.  Hence,  on  this  oc- 
casion more  than  upon  others,  these  peculiar- 
ities rang  out  till  the  windows  shivered. 

The  most  surprised  of  men  in  the  town  on 
hearing  that  Tartarin  was  going  away  to  Africa, 
was  Tartarin  himself.  But  only  see  what  van- 
ity is!  Instead  of  phunply  answering  that  he 
was  not  going  at  all,  and  had  not  even  had  the 
intention,  poor  Tartarin,  on  the  first  of  them 
mentioning  the  journey  to  him,  observed  with 
a  neat  little  evasive  air,  "  Aha!  maybe  I  shall — 
Tnit  I  do  not  say  as  much."  The  second  time,,  a 
trifle  more  familiarized  with  the  idea,  he  re- 
plied, "  Very  likely;"  and  the  third  time,  "  It's 
certain." 

Finally,  in  the  evening,  at  Costecalde's  and 
the  club,  carried  away  by  the  egg-nogg,  cheers, 
and  illumination;  intoxicated  by  the  impres- 
sion that  bare  announcement  of  his  depart- 
ure had  made  on  the  town,  the  hapless  fellow 
formally  declared  that  he  was  sick  of  banging 


Tariarin  of  Taraseon.  55 

away  at  caps,  and  that  he  would  shortly  be  on 
the  trail  of  the  great  lions  of  the  Atlas.  A 
deafening  hurrah  greeted  this  assertion. 
Whereupon  more  egg-nogg,  bravoes,  hand- 
shaking, slappings  of  the  shoulder,  and  a  torch- 
light serenade  up  to  midnight  before  Baobab 
Villa. 

It  was  Sancho-Tartarin  who  was  anything 
but  delighted.  This  idea  of  travel  in  Africa 
and  lion-hunting  made  him  shudder  before- 
hand ;  and  when  the  house  was  re-entered,  and 
whilst  the  complimentary  concert  was  sounding 
under  the  windows,  he  had  a  dreadful  "  row " 
with  Quixote-Tartarin,  calling  him  a  cracked 
head,  a  visionary,  imprudent,  and  thrice  an 
idiot,  and  detailing  by  the  card  all  the  catas- 
trophes awaiting  him  on  such  an  expedition — 
shipwreck,  rheumatism,  yellow  fever,  dysentery, 
the  black  plague,  elephantiasis,  and  the  rest  of 
them. 

In  vain  did  Quixote-Tartarin  vow  that  he  had 
not  committed  any  imprudence — that  he  would 
wrap  himself  up  well,  and  take  even  superfluous 
iKcos=aries  with  him.  Sancho-Tartarin  would 


r>6  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

listen  to  nothing.  The  poor  craven  saw  him- 
self already  torn  to  tatters  by  the  lions,  or  en- 
gulfed in  the  desert  sands  like  his  late  royal 
highness,  Cambyses,  and  the  other  Tartarin 
only  managed  to  appease  him  a  little  by  ex- 
plaining that  the  start  was  not  immediate,  as 
nothing  pressed. 

It  is  clear  enough,  indeed,  that  none  embark 
on  such  an  enterprise  without  some  prepara- 
tions. A  man  is  bound  to  know  whither  he 
goes,  hang  it  all  !  and  not  fly  off  like  a  bird. 
Before  anything  else,  the  Tarasconian  wanted 
to  pursue  the  accounts  of  great  African  tourists, 
the  narrations  of  Mungo  Park,  Du  Chaillu,  Dr. 
Livingstone,  Stanley,  and  so  on. 

In  them,  he  learned  that  these  daring  ex- 
plorers, before  donning  their  sandals  for  distant 
excursions,  hardened  themselves  well  before- 
hand to  support  hunger  and  thirst,  forced 
marches,  and  all  kinds  of  privation.  Tartarin 
meant  to  act  like  they  did,  and  from  that  day 
forward  he  lived  upon  water  broth  alone.  The 
water  broth  of  Tarascon  is  a  few  slices  of  bread 
drowned  in  hot  water,  with  a  clove  of  garlic,  a 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  57 

pinch  of  thyme,  and  a  sprig  of  laurel.  Strict 
diet,  at  which  you  may  believe  poor  Sancho 
made  a  wry  face. 

To  the  regimen  of  water  broth  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon  joined  other  wise  practices.  To  break 
himself  into  the  habit  of  long  marches,  he  con- 
strained himself  to  go  round  the  town  seven  or 
eight  times  consecutively  every  morning,  either 
at  the  fast  walk  or  run,  his  elbows  well  set 
against  his  body,  and  a  couple  of  white  pebbles 
in  the  mouth,  according  to  the  antique  usage. 

To  get  inured  to  fog,  dew,  and  night  cool- 
ness, he  would  go  down  into  his  garden  every 
dusk,  and  stop  out  there  till  ten  or  eleven,  alone 
with  his  gun,  on  the  lookout,  behind  the 
baobab. 

Finally,  so  long  as  Mitaine's  wild  beast  show 
tarried  in  Taxascon,  the  cap-poppers  who  were 
belated  at  Costecalde's  might  spy  in  the  shadow 
of  the  booth,  as  they  crossed  the  Castle-green, 
a  mysterious  figure  stalking  up  and  down.  It 
was  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  habituating  himself 
to  hear  without  emotion  the  roarings  of  the  lion 
in  the  sombre  night. 


CHAPTER     X. 

BEFORE  THE   START. 

PENDING  Tartarin's  delay  of  the  event  by  all 
sorts  of  heroic  means,  all  Tarascon  kept  an  eye 
upon  him,  and  nothing  else  was  busied  about. 
Cap-popping  was  winged,  and  ballad-singing 
dead.  The  piano  in  Bezuquet's  shop  mouldered 
away  under  a  green  fungus,  and  the  Spanish 
flies  dried  upon  it,  belly  up.  Tartarin's  expe- 
dition had  put  a  stopper  on  everything. 

Ah,  you  ought  to  have  seen  his  success  in 
the  parlors.  He  was  snatched  away  by  one  from 
another,  fought  for,  loaned  and  borrowed,  ay, 
stolen.  There  was  no  greater  honor  for  the 
ladies  than  to  go  to  Mitaine's  Menagerie  on 
Tartarin's  arms,  and  have  it  explained  before 
the  lion's  den  how  such  large  game  are  hunted, 
where  they  should  be  aimed  at,  at  how  many 
paces  off,  if  the  accidents  were  numerous,  and 
the  like  of  that. 

58 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  50 

Tartarin  furnished  all  the  elucidation  desired. 
He  had  read  "  The  Life  of  Jules  Gerard,  the 
Lion-Slayer,"  and  had  lion-hunting  at  his  fin- 
ger ends,  as  if  he  had  been  through  it  himself. 
Hence  he  orated  upon  these  matters  with  great 
eloquence. 

But  where  he  shone  the  brightest  was  at  din- 
ner at  Chief  Judge  Ladeveze's,  or  brave  Com- 
mandant Bravida's  (the  former  captain  in  the 
Army  Clothing  Factory,  you  will  keep  in  mind), 
when  coffee  came  in,  and  all  the  chairs  were 
brought  up  closer  together,  whilst  they  chatted 
of  his  future  hunts. 

Thereupon,  his  elbow  on  the  cloth,  his  nose 
over  his  Mocha,  our  hero  would  discourse  in  a 
feeling  tone  of  all  the  dangers  awaiting  him 
thereaway.  He  spoke  of  the  long  moonless 
night  lyings-in-wait,  the  pestilential  fens,  the 
rivers  envenomed  by  leaves  of  poison-plants,  the 
deep  snow-drifts,  the  scorching  suns,  the  scor- 
pions, and  rains  of  grasshoppers;  he  also  des- 
canted on  the  peculiarities  of  the  great  lions  of 
the  Atlas,  their  way  of  fighting,  their  phenom- 


60  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

enal  vigor,  and  their  ferocity  in  the  mating 
season. 

Heating  with  his  own  recital,  he  would  rise 
from  table,  bounding  to  the  middle  of  the 
dining-room,  imitating  the  roar  of  a  lion  and 
the  going-off  of  a  rifle:  crack!  bang!  the  zizz  of 
the  explosive  bullet — gesticulating  and  roaring 
about  till  he  had  overset  the  chairs. 

Everybody  turned  pale  around  the  board:  the 
gentlemen  looking  at  one  another  and  wagging 
their  heads,  the  ladies  shutting  their  eyes  with 
pretty  screams  of  fright,  the  elderly  men  com- 
batively brandishing  their  canes;  and,  in  the 
side  apartments,  the  little  boys,  who  had  been 
put  to  bed  betimes,  were  greatly  startled  by  the 
sudden  outcries  and  imitated  gun-fire,  and 
screamed  for  lights. 

Meanwhile,  Tartarin  did  not  start. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"LET'S  HAVE  IT  OUT  WITH  SWORDS,  GENTLE- 
MEN, NOT  PINS  ! " 

A  DELICATE  question:  whether  Tartarin  really 
had  any  intention  of  going,  and  one  which  the 
historian  of  Tartarin  would  be  highly  embar- 
rassed to  answer.  In  plain  words,  Mitaine's 
Menagerie  had  left  Tarascon  over  three  months, 
and  still  the  lion-slayer  had  not  started.  After 
all,  blinded  by  a  new  mirage,  our  candid  hero 
may  have  imagined  in  perfectly  good  faith  that 
he  had  gone  to  Algeria.  On  the  strength  of 
having  related  his  future  hunts,  he  may  have 
believed  he  had  performed  them  as  sincerely  as 
he  fancied  he  had  hoisted  the  consular  flag  and 
fired  on  the  Tartars,  zizz,  phit,  bang!  at  Shang- 
hai. 

Unfortunately,  granting  Tartarin  was  this 
time  again  dupe  of  an  illusion,  his  fellowtowns- 
folk  were  not.  When,  after  the  quarter's  ex- 

61 


62  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

pectation,  they  perceived  that  the  hunter  had 
not  packed  even  a  collar-box,  they  commenced 
murmuring. 

"  This  is  going  to  turn  out  like  the  Shang- 
hai expedition,"  remarked  Costecalde,  smiling. 

The  gunsmith's  comment  was  welcomed  all 
over  town,  for  nobody  believed  any  longer  in 
their  late  idol.  The  simpletons  and  poltroons 
— all  the  fellows  of  Bezuquet's  stamp,  whom  a 
flea  would  put  to  flight,  and  who  could  not  fire 
a  shot  without  closing  their  eyes — were  con- 
spicuously pitiless.  In  the  club-rooms  or  on 
the  esplanade,  they  accosted  poor  Tartarin  with 
bantering  mien: 

"  And  furthermore,  when  is  that  trip  coming 
off?" 

In  Costecalde's  shop,  his  opinions  gained  no 
credence,  for  the  cap-poppers  renounced  their 
chief  ! 

Next,  epigrams  dropped  into  the  affair. 
Chief  Judge  Ladevese,  who  willingly  paid  court 
in  his  leisure  hours  to  the  native  Muse,  com- 
posed in  local  dialect  a  song  which  won  much 


Tartarin  of  -Tarascon.  63 

success.  It  told  of  a  sportsman  called  "  Master 
Gervais,"  whose  dreaded  rifle  was  bound  to  ex- 
terminate all  the  lions  in  Africa  to  the  very  last. 
Unluckily,  this  terrible  gun  was  of  a  strange 
kind:  "though  loaded  daily,  it  never  went  off." 

"  It  never  went  off  " — you  will  catch  the  drift. 

In  less  than  no  time,  this  ditty  became  pop- 
ular; and  when  Tartarin  came  by,  the  long- 
shoremen and  the  little  shoeblacks  before  his 
door  sang  in  chorus  — 

"  Muster  Jarvey's  roifle 

Allus  gittin'  chaarged; 
Muster  Jarvey's  roifle 

'11  hev  to  git  enlaarged; 
Muster  Jarvey's  roifle's 

Loaded  oft — don't  scoff  ; 
Muster  Jarvey's  roifle 

Niwer  do  go  off!" 

But  it  was  shouted  out  from  a  safe  distance, 
on  account  of  the  double  muscles. 

Oh,  the  fragility  of  Tarascon's  fads! 

The  great  object  himself  feigned  to  see  and 
hear  nothing;  but,  under  the  surface,  this  sul- 
len and  venomous  petty  warfare  much  afflicted 
him.  lie  felt  aware  that  Tarascon  was  slipping 


64  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

out  of  his  grip,  and  that  popular  favor  was 
going  to  others;  and  this  made  him  suffer  hor- 
ribly. 

Ah,  the  huge  bowl  of  popularity!  it's  all  very 
well  to  have  a  seat  in  front  of  it,  but  what  a 
scalding  you  catch  when  it  is  overturned  ! 

Notwithstanding  his  pain,  Tartarin  smiled 
and  peacefully  jogged  on  in  the  same  life  as 
if  nothing  untoward  had  happened.  Still,  the 
mask  of  jovial  heedlessness  glued  by  pride  on 
his  face  would  sometimes  be  suddenly  detached. 
Then,  in  lieu  of  laughter,  one  saw  grief  and  in- 
dignation. Thus  it  was  that  one  morning  when 
the  little  blackguards  yelped  "  Muster  Jarvey's 
Roifle"  beneath  his  window,  the  wretches' 
voices  rose  even  into  the  poor  great  man's  room, 
where  he  was  shaving  before  the  glass.  (Tar- 
tarin wore  a  full  beard,  but  as  it  grew  very 
thick,  he  was  obliged  to  keep  it  trimmed 
orderly.) 

All  at  once  the  window  was  violently  opened, 
and  Tartarin  appeared  in  shirt-sleeves  and  night- 
cap, smothered  in  lather,  flourishing  his  razor 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  65 

and  shaving-brush,  and  roaring  with  a  formid- 
able voice: 

"Let's  have  it  out  with  swords,  gentlemen, 
not  pins  ! " 

Fine  words,  worthy  of  history's  record,  with 
only  the  blemish  that  they  were  addressed  to 
little  scamps  not  higher  than  their  boot-boxes, 
and  who  were  quite  incapable  of  holding  a 
smallsword. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   MEMOKABLE    DIALOGUE    IN   THE    LITTLE 
BAOBAB  VILLA. 

AMID  the  general  falling  off,  the  army  alone 
stuck  out  firmly  for  Tartarin.  Brave  Com- 
mandant Bravida  (the  former  captain  in  the 
Army  Clothing  Department)  continued  to  show 
him  the  same  esteem  as  ever.  "  He's  game  !  " 
he  persisted  in  saying — an  assertion,  I  beg  to 
"believe,  fully  worth  the  chemist  Bezuquet's. 
Not  once  did  the  brave  officer  let  out  any  allu- 
sion to  the  trip  to  Africa;  but  when  the  public 
clamor  grew  too  loud,  he  determined  to  have  his 
say. 

One  evening  the  luckless  Tartarin  was  in  his 
study,  in  a  brown  study  himself,  when  he  saw 
the  commandant  stride  in,  stern,  wearing  black 
gloves,  and  buttoned  up  to  his  ears. 

"  Tartarin,"  said  the  ex-captain  authorita- 
tively, "  Tartarin,  you'll  have  to  go!  " 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  67 

And  there  he  dwelt,  erect  in  the  doorway 
frame,  grand  and  rigid  as  embodied  Duty. 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  comprehended  all  the 
sense  in  "Tartarin,  you'll  have  to  go!" 

Very  pale,  he  rose  and  looked  around  with 
a  softened  eye  upon  the  cosy  snuggery,  tightly 
closed  in,  full  of  warmth  and  tender  light — 
upon  his  commodious  easy  chair,  his  books,  the 
carpet,  the  white  blinds  of  the  windows,  beyond 
which  trembled  the  slender  twigs  of  the  little 
garden.  Then,  advancing  towards  the  brave 
officer,  he  took  his  hand,  grasped  it  energetic- 
ally, and  said  in  a  voice  somewhat  tearful,  but 
stoical  for  all  that: 

"  I  am  going,  Bravida." 

And  go  he  did,  as  he  said  he  would.  Not 
straight  off  though,  for  it  takes  time  to  get  the 
paraphernalia  together. 

To  begin  with,  he  ordered  of  Bompard  two 
large  boxes  bound  with  brass,  and  an  inscription 
to  be  on  them: 


68  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 


TARTARIN,  OF  TARASCON. 


FIREARMS,  &c. 


The  binding  in  brass  and  the  lettering  took 
much  time.  He  also  ordered  at  Tastavin's  a 
showy  album,  in  which  to  keep  a  diary  and  his 
impressions  of  travel;  for  a  man  cannot  help 
having  an  idea  or  two  strike  him  even  when  he 
is  busy  lion-hunting. 

Next,  he  had  over  from  Marseilles  a  down- 
right cargo  of  tinned  eatablesj  pemmican  com- 
pressed in  cakes  for  making  soup,  a  new  pattern 
shelter-tent,  opening  out  and  packing  up  in  a 
minute,  sea-boots,  a  couple  of  umbrellas,  a 
waterproof  coat,  and  blue  spectacles  to  ward  off 
ophthalmia.  To  conclude,  Bezuquet  the  chem- 
ist made  him  a  miniature  portable  medicine 
chest  stuffed  with  diachylon  plaister,  arnica, 
camphor  and  medicated  vinegar. 

Poor  Tartarin!  he  did  not  take  these  safe- 
guards on  his  own  behalf;  but  he  hoped,  by 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  60 

dint  of  precaution  and  delicate  attentions,  to 
allay  Sancho-Tartarin's  fury,  who,  since  the 
start  was  fixed,  never  left  off  raging  day  or 
night. 


CHAPTER  XITI. 

THE   DEPARTURE. 

EFTSOON  arrived  the  great  and  solemn  day. 
From  dawn  all  Tarascon  had  been  on  foot,  en- 
cumbering the  Avignon  road  and  the  ap- 
proaches to  Baobab  Villa.  People  were  up  at 
the  windows,  on  the  roofs,  and  in  the  trees;  the 
Rhone  bargees,  porters,  dredgers  shoe-blacks, 
gentry,  tradesfolk,  warpers  and  weavers,  taffety- 
workers,  the  club  members,  in  short  the  whole 
town;  moreover,  people  from  Bcaucaire  had 
come  over  the  bridge,  market-gardeners  from 
the  environs,  carters  in  their  huge  carts  with 
ample  tilts,  vine-dressers  upon  handsome  mules, 
tricked  out  with  ribbons,  streamers,  bells,  roset- 
tes, and  jingles,  and  even,  here  and  there,  a  few 
pretty  maids  from  Aries  come  on  the  pillion  be- 
hind their  sweethearts,  with  bonny  blue  ribbons 

70 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  71 

round  the  head,  upon  little  iron-grey  Camargue 
horses. 

All  this  swarm  squeezed  and  jostled  before 
our  good  Tartarin's  door,  who  was  going  to 
slaughter  lions  in  the  land  of  the  Turks. 

For  Tarascon,  Algeria,  Africa,  Greece,  Persia, 
Turkey,  and  Mesopotamia,  all  form  one  great, 
hazy  country,  almost  a  myth,  called  the  land  of 
the  Turks.  They  say  "  TwrV  but  that's  a 
linguistic  disgression. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  throng,  the  cap- 
poppers  bustled  to  and  fro,  proud  of  their  cap- 
tain's triumph,  leaving  glorious  wakes  where 
they  had  passed. 

In  front  of  the  Indian  fig-tree  house  were 
two  large  trucks.  From  time  to  time  the  door 
would  open,  and  allow  several  persons  to  be 
spied,  gravely  lounging  about  the  little  garden. 
At  every  new  box  the  throng  started  and 
trembled.  The  articles  were  named  in  a  loud 
voice: 

"That  there's  the  shelter-tent;  these  the 
potted  meats;  that's  the  physic-chest;  these  the 


T2  Tartarin  of  Taraseon. 

gun-cases," — the  cap-poppers  giving  explana- 
tions. 

All  of  a  sudden,  about  ten  o'clock,  there  was 
a  great  stir  in  the  multitude,  for  the  garden  gate 
banged  open. 

"Here  lie  is!  here  he  is!"  they  shouted. 

It  was  he  indeed.  When  he  appeared  upon 
the  threshold,  two  outcries  of  stupefaction  burst 
from  the  assemblage: 

"  He's  a  Turk!  "     "  He's  got  on  spectacles!  " 

In  truth,  Tartarin  of  Taraseon  had  deemed  it 
his  duty,  on  going  to  Algeria,  to  don  the  Alger- 
ian costume.  Full  white  linen  trousers,  small 
tight  vest  with  metal  buttons,  a  red  sash  two 
feet  wide  around  the  waist,  the  neck  bare  and 
the  forehead  shaven,  and  a  vast  red  fez,  or 
cliechia,  on  his  head,  with  something  like  a  long 
blue  tassel  thereto.  Together  with  this,  two 
heavy  guns,  one  on  each  shoulder,  a  broad  hunt- 
ing-knife in  the  girdle,  a  bandolier  across  the 
breast,  a  revolver  on  the  hip,  swinging  in  its 
patent  leather  case — that  is  all.  No,  I  cry  your 
pardon,  I  was  forgetting  the  spectacles — a  pan- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  73 

tomimically  large  pair  of  azure  barnacles,  which 
came  in  patly  to  temper  what  was  too  fierce  in 
the  bearing  of  our  hero. 

"Long  life  to  Tartarin!  hip,  hip,  hurrah  for 
Tartarin!"  roared  the  populace. 

The  great  man  smiled,  but  did  not  salute,  on 
account  of  the  firearms  hindering  him.  More- 
over, he  knew  now  on  what  popular  favor  de- 
pends; it  may  even  be  that  in  the  depths  of  his 
soul  he  cursed  his  terrible  fellow-townsfolk,  who 
obliged  him  to  go  away  and  leave  his  pretty 
little  pleasure-house  with  whitened  walls  and 
green  Venetians.  But  there  was  no  show  of 
this. 

Calm  and  proud,  although  a  little  pallid,  he 
stepped  out  on  the  footway,  glanced  at  the 
hand-carts,  and,  seeing  all  was  right,  lustily 
took  the  road  to  the  railway  station,  without 
even  once  looking  back  towards  Baobab  Villa. 
Behind  him  marched  the  brave  Commandant 
Bravida,  Ladeveze  the  Chief  Judge,  Costecalde 
the  gunsmith  next,  and  then  all  the  sportsmen 


74  Tartar^  of  Tarascon. 

who  pop  at  caps,  preceding  the  hand-carts  and 
the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail. 

Before  the  station  the  station-master  awaited 
them,  an  old  African  veteran  of  1830,  who 
shook  Tartarin's  hand  many  times  with  fer- 
vency. 

The  Paris-to-Marseilles  express  was  not  yet 
in,  so  Tartarin  and  his  staff  went  into  the  wait- 
ing-rooms. To  prevent  the  place  being  over- 
run, the  station-master  ordered  the  gates  to  be 
closed. 

During  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Tartarin  prom- 
enaded up  and  down  in  the  rooms  in  the 
midst  of  his  brother  marksmen,  speaking  to 
them  of  his  journey  and  his  hunting,  and  prom- 
ising to  send  them  skins;  they  put  their  names 
down  in  his  memorandum-book  for  a  lionskin 
apiece,  as  waltzers  book  for  a  dance. 

Gentle  and  placid  as  Socrates  on  the  point  of 
quaffing  the  hemlock,  the  intrepid  Tarasconian 
had  a  word  and  a  smile  for  each.  He  spoke 
simply,  with  an  affable  mien;  it  looked  as  if, 
before  departing,  he  meant  to  leave  behind  him 


Tartar.'n  of  Tarascon.  75 

a  \vake  of  charms,,  regrets,  and  pleasant  mem- 
ories. On  hearing  their  leader  speak  in  this 
way,  all  the  sportsmen  felt  tears  well  up,  and 
some  were  stung  with  remorse,  to  wit,  Chief 
Judge  Ladeveze  and  the  chemist  Bezuquet. 
The  railway  employes  blubbered  in  the  corners, 
whilst  the  outer  public  squinted  through  the 
bars  and  bellowed:  "  Long  live  Tartarin!" 

At  length  the  bell  rang.  A  dull  rumble  was 
heard,  and  a  piercing  whistle  shook  the  vault. 

"  The  Marseilles  express,  gen'lemen!'' 

"Good-bye,  Tartarin!  Good  luck,  old  fel- 
low!" 

"Good-bye  to  you  all!"  murmured  the  great 
man,  as,  with  his  arms  around  the  brave  Com- 
mandant Bravida,  he  embraced  his  dear  native 
place  collectively  in  him.  Then  he  leaped  out 
upon  the  platform,  and  clambered  into  a  car- 
riage full  of  Parisian  ladies,  who  were  ready  to 
die  with  fright  at  sight  of  this  stranger  with 
so  many  pistols  and  rifles. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  PORT  OF  MARSEILLES. — "ALL  ABOARD,  ALL 
ABOARD  !  " 

UPON  the  1st  of  December  18 — ,  in  clear, 
brilliant,  splendid  weather,  under  a  south  win- 
ter sun,  the  startled  inhabitants  of  Marseilles 
beheld  a  Turlc  come  down  the  Canebiere,  or 
their  Regent  Street.  A  Turk,  a  regular  Turk 
— never  had  such  a  one  been  seen;  and  yet, 
Heaven  knows,  there  is  no  lack  of  Turks  at 
Marseilles. 

The  Turk  in  question — have  I  any  neces- 
sity of  telling  you  it  was  the  great  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon? — waddled  along  the  quays,  followed 
by  his  gun-cases,  medicine-chest,  and  tinned 
comestibles,  to  reach  the  landing-stage  of  the 
Touache  Company  and  the  mail  steamer  the 
Zouave,  which  was  to  transport  him  over  the 
sea. 

With  his  ears  still  ringing   with   the  home 

76 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  77 

applause,  intoxicated  by  the  glare  of  the 
heavens  and  the  reek  of  the  sea,  Tartarin  fairly 
beamed  as  he  stepped  out  with  a  lofty  head, 
and  between  his  guns  on  his  shoulders,  looking 
with  all  his  eyes  upon  that  wondrous,  dazzling 
harbor  of  Marseilles,  which  he  saw  for  the  first 
time.  The  poor  fellow  believed  he  was  dream- 
ing. He  fancied  his  name  was  Sinbad  the 
Sailor,  and  that  he  was  roaming  in  one  of  those 
fantastic  cities  abundant  in  the  "Arabian 
Nights."  As  far  as  eye  could  reach  there 
spread  a  forest  of  masts  and  spars,  cris-cross- 
ing  in  every  way. 

Flags  of  all  countries  floated — English, 
American,  Russian.  Swedish,  Greek  and  Tunis- 
ian. 

The  vessels  lay  alongside  the  wharves — ay, 
head  on,  so  that  their  bowsprits  stuck  up  out 
over  the  strand  like  rows  of  bayonets.  Over  it, 
too,  sprawled  the  mermaids,  goddesses,  madon- 
nas, and  other  figure-heads  in  carved  and 
painted  wood  which  gave  names  to  the  ships — • 
all  worn  by  sea-water,  split,  mildewed,  and  drip- 


78  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

ping.  Ever  and  anon,  between  the  hulls,  a 
patch  of  harbor  like  watered  silk  splashed  with 
oil.  In  the  intervals  of  the  yards  and  booms, 
what  seemed  swarms  of  flies  prettily  spotted  the 
blue  sky.  These  were  the  shipboys,  hailing 
one  another  in  all  languages. 

On  the  waterside,  amidst  thick  green  or  black 
rivulets  coming  down  from  the  soart-factories 
loaded  with  oil  and  soda,  bustled  a  mass  of  cus- 
tom-house officers,  messengers,  porters,  and 
truckmen  with  their  loylieys,  or  trolleys,  drawn 
by  Corsican  ponies. 

There  were  shops  selling  quaint  articles,, 
smoky  shanties  where  sailors  were  cooking  their 
own  queer  messes,  dealers  in  pipes,  monkeys, 
parrots,  ropes,  sailcloth,  fanciful  curios, 
amongst  which  were  mingled  higgledy-piggledy 
old  culverins,  huge  gilded  lanterns,  worn-out 
pulley-blocks,  rusty  flukeless  anchors,  chafed 
cordage,  battered  speaking-trumpets,  and 
marine  glasses  almost  contemporary  with  the 
Ark.  Sellers  of  mussels  and  clams  squatted  be- 
side their  heaps  of  shellfish  and  yawped  their 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  79 

goods.  Seamen  rolled  by  with  tar-pots,  smok- 
ing soup-bowls,  and  big  baskets  full  of  cuttle- 
fish, from  which  they  went  to  wash  the  ink  in 
the  milky  waters  of  the  fountains. 

Everywhere  a  prodigious  collection  of  all 
kinds  of  goods:  silks,  minerals,  wood  in  stacks, 
lead  in  pigs,  cloths,  sugars,  caruba  wood  logs, 
colza  seed,  licorice  sticks,  sugar-canes.  The 
East  and  the  West  cheek  by  jowl,  even  to  pyra- 
mids of  Dutch  cheeses  which  the  Genoese  were 
dyeing  red  by  contact  with  their  hands. 

Yonder  was  the  corn  market  porters  dis- 
charging sacks  down  the  chutes  of  lofty  eleva- 
tors upon  the  pier,  and  loose  grain  rolling  as  a 
golden  torrent  through  a  blonde  dust.  Men  in 
red  skullcaps  were  sifting  it  as  they  caught  it 
in  large  asses'-skin  sieves,  and  loading  it  upon 
carts  which  took  their  millward  w-ay,  followed 
by  a  regiment  of  women  and  youngsters  with 
wisps  and  gleaning-baskets.  Farther  on,  the 
dry  docks,  where  large  vessels  were  laid  low  on 
their  sides  till  their  yards  dipped  in  the  water; 
they  were  singed  with  thorn-bushes  to  free 


80  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

them  of  seaweed;  there  rose  an  odor  of  pitch, 
and  the  deafening  clatter  of  the  sheathers  cop- 
pering the  bottoms  with  broad  sheets  of  yellow 
metal. 

At  whiles  a  gap  in  between  the  masts,  in 
which  Tartarin  could  see  the  haven  mouth, 
where  the  vessels  came  and  went:  a  British 
frigate  off  for  Malta,  dainty  and  thoroughly 
washed  down,  with  the  officer  in  primrose 
gloves,  or  a  large  home-port  brig  hauling  out 
in  the  midst  of  uproar  and  oaths,  whilst  the  fat 
captain,  in  a  high  silk  hat  and  frockcoat,  or- 
dered the  operations  in  Provencal  dialect. 
Other  craft  were  making  forth  under  all  sail, 
and,  still  farther  out,  more  were  slowly  loom- 
ing up  in  the  sunshine  as  if  they  were  sailing 
in  the  air. 

All  the  time  a  frightful  riot,  the  rumbling 
of  carts,  the  "Haul  all,  haul  away!"  of  the 
shipmen,  oaths,  songs,  steamboat  whistles,  the 
bugles  and  drums  in  Forts  Saint  Jean  and  Saint 
Nicolas,  the  bells  of  the  Major,  the  Accoules, 
and  Saint  Victor;  with  the  mistral  atop  of  all, 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  81 

catching  up  the  noises  and  clamor,  and  rolling 
them  up  together  with  a  furious  shaking,  till 
confounded  with  its  own  voice,  which  entoned 
a  mad,  wild,  heroic  melody  like  a  grand  charg- 
ing tune — one  that  filled  hearers  with  a  long- 
ing to  be  off,  and  the  farther  the  better — a 
craving  for  wings. 

It  was  to  the  sound  of  this  splendid  blast 
that  the  intrepid  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  em- 
barked for  the  land  of  lions. 


EPISODE  THE  SECOND 


AMONG   -THE  TURKS" 


Chattering  under  their  coverings. 


CHAPTER  T. 

THE  PASSAGE. — THE  FIVE  POSITIONS  OF  TUFT 
FEZ. —  THE  THIRD  EVENING  OUT. —  MERCY 
UPON  US  ! 

JOYFUL  would  I  be,  ray  dear  readers,  if  I 
were  a  painter — a  great  artist,  I  mean — in  order 
to  set  under  your  eyes,  at  the  head  of  this, 
second  episode,  the  various  positions  taken  by 
Tartarin's  red  cap  in  the  three  days'  passage  it 
made  on  board  of  the  Zouave,  between  France 
and  Algeria. 

First  would  I  show  you  it  at  the  steaming 
out,  upon  deck,  arrogant  and  heroic  as  it  was, 
forming  a  glory  round  that  handsome  Taras- 
conian  head.  Xext  would  I  show  you  it  at  the 
harbor-mouth,  when  the  bark  began  to  caper 
upon  the  waves;  I  would  depict  it  for  you  all 
of  a  quake  in  astonishment,  and  as  though  al- 
ready experiencing  the  preliminary  qualms  of 
sea-sickness. 

85 


8G  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Then,  in  the  Gulf  of  the  Lion,  proportion- 
ably  to  the  nearing  the  open  sea,  where  the 
white  caps  heaved  harder,  I  would  make  you 
behold  it  wrestling  with  the  tempest,  and  stand- 
ing on  end  upon  the  hero's  cranium,  with  its 
mighty  mane  of  blue  wool  bristling  out  in  the 
spray  and  breeze. 

Position  Fourth:  at  six  in  the  afternoon,  with 
the  Corsican  coast  in  view;  the  unfortunate 
Chechia  hangs  over  the  ship's  side,  and  lamenta- 
bly stares  down  as  though  to  plumb  the  depths 
of  ocean.  Finally  and  lastly,  the  Fifth  Posi- 
tion: at  the  back  of  a  narrow  state-room,  in  a 
box-bed  so  small  it  seemed  one  drawer  in  a  nest 
of  them,  something  shapeless  rolled  on  the  pil- 
low with  moans  of  desolation.  This  was  the 
fez — the  fez  so  defiant  at  the  sailing,  now  re- 
duced to  the  vulgar  condition  of  a  nightcap, 
and  pulled  down  over  the  very  ears  of  the  head 
of  a  pallid  and  convulsed  sufferer. 

How  the  people  of  Tarascon  would  have 
kicked  themselves  for  having  constrained  the 
great  Tartarin  to  leave  home,  if  they  had  but 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  87 

seen  him  stretched  in  the  bunk  in  the  dull,  wan 
gleam  through  the  dead-light,  amid  the  sickly 
odor  of  cooking  and  wet  wood — the  heart-heav- 
ing perfume  of  mail-boats;  if  they  had  but 
heard  him  gurgle  at  every  turn  of  the  screw, 
wail  for  tea  every  five  minutes,  and  swear  at  the 
steward  in  a  childish  treble! 

On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  story-teller,  the 
poor  Turk  would  have  made  a  paste-board 
dummy  pity  him. 

Suddenly,  overcome  by  the  nausea,  the  hap- 
less victim  had  not  even  the  power  to  undo  the 
Algerian  girdle-cloth,  or  lay  aside  his  armory; 
the  lumpy-handled  hunting-sword  pounded  his 
ribs,  and  the  leather  revolver-case  made  his 
thigh  raw.  To  finish  him  arose  the  taunts  of 
Sancho-Tartarin,  who  never  ceased  to  groan 
and  inveigh: 

"  Well,  for  the  biggest  kind  of  imbecile,  you 
are  the  finest  specimen!  I  told  you  truly  how 
it  would  be.  Ha,  ha!  you  were  bound  to  go  to 
Africa,  of  course!  Well,  old  merriman,  now 
you  are  going  to  Africa,  how  do  you  like  it?" 


88  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

The  crudest  part  of  it  was  that,  from  the 
retreat  where  he  was  moaning,  the  hapless  in- 
valid could  hear  the  passengers  in  the  grand 
saloon  laughing,  munching,  singing,  and  play- 
ing at  cards.  On  board  the  Zouave  the  company 
was  as  jolly  as  numerous,  composed  of  officers 
going  back  to  join  their  regiments,  ladies  from 
the  Marseilles  Alcazar  Music  Hall, strolling-play- 
ers, a  rich  Mussulman  returning  from  Mecca,  and 
a  very  jocular  Montenegrin  prince,  who  favored 
them  with  imitations  of  the  low  comedians  of 
Paris.  Not  one  of  these  jokers  felt  the  sea-sick- 
ness, and  their  time  was  passed  in  quaffing 
champagne  with  the  steamer  captain,  a  good 
fat  born  Marseillais,  who  had  a  wife  and  family 
as  well  at  Algiers  as  at  home,  and  who  answered 
to  the  merry  name  of  Barbassou. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  hated  this  pack  of 
wretches;  their  mirthfulness  deepened  his  ails. 

At  length,  on  the  third  afternoon,  there  was 
such  an  extraordinary  hullabaloo  on  the  deck 
that  our  hero  was  roused  out  of  his  long  torpor. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  89 

The  ship's  bell  was  ringing  and  the  seamen's 
heavy  boots  ran  over  the  planks. 

"Go  ahead!  Stop  her!  Turn  astern!"  barked 
the  hoarse  voice  of  Captain  Barbassou;  and 
then,  "  Stop  her  dead!" 

There  was  an  abrupt  check  of  movement,  a 
shock,  and  no  more,  save  the  silent  rolling  of 
the  boat  from  side  to  side  like  a  balloon  in  the 
air.  This  strange  stillness  alarmed  the  Taras- 
conian. 

"  Heaven  ha'  mercy  upon  us!"  he  yelled  in  a 
terrifying  voice,  as,  recovering  his  strength  by 
magic,  he  bounded  out  of  his  berth,  and  rushed 
upon  deck  with  his  arsenal. 


CHAPTER  TT. 

"  TO  ARMS  !    TO  ARMS  !  " 

ONLY  the  arrival,  not  a  foundering. 

The  Zouave  was  just  gliding  into  the  road- 
stead— a  fine  one  of  black,  deep  water,  but  dull 
and  still,  almost  deserted.  On  elevated  ground 
ahead  rose  Algiers,  the  White  City,  with  its 
little  houses  of  a  dead  cream-color  huddling 
against  one  another  lest  they  slid  into  the  sea. 
It  was  like  Meudon  slope  with  a  laundress's 
washing  hung  out  to  dry.  Over  it  a  vast  blue 
satin  sky — and  such  a  blue! 

A  little  restored  from  his  fright,  the  illus- 
trious Tartarin  gazed  on  the  landscape,  and  lis- 
tened with  respect  to  the  Montenegrin  prince, 
who  stood  by  his  side,  as  he  named  the  different 
parts  of  the  capital,  the  Kasbah,  the  upper 
town,  and  the  Rue  Bab-Azoon.  A  very  finely- 
brought-up  prince  was  this  Montenegrin;  more- 
over, knowing  Algeria  thoroughly,  and  fluently 

90 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  91 

speaking  Arabic.     Hence  Tartarin  thought  of 
cultivating  his  acquaintance. 

All  at  once,  along  the  bulwark  against  which 
they  were  leaning,  the  Tarasconian  perceived 
a  row  of  large  black  hands  clinging  to  it  from 
over  the  side.  Almost  instantly  a  negro's 
woolly  head  shot  up  before  him,  and,  ere  he  had 
time  to  open  his  mouth,  the  deck  was  over- 
whelmed on  every  side  by  a  hundred  black  .or 
yellow  desperadoes,  half  naked,  hideous,  and 
fearsome.  Tartarin  knew  who  these  pirates 
were — "  they,"  of  course,  the  celebrated  "  they" 
who  had  too  often  been  hunted  after  by  him 
in  the  by-ways  of  Tarascon.  At  last  they  had 
decided  to  meet  him  face  to  face.  At  the  out- 
set surprise  nailed  him  to  the  spot.  But  when 
he  saw  the  outlaws  fall  upon  the  luggage,  tear 
off  the  tarpaulin  covering,  and  actually  com- 
mence the  pillage  of  the  ship,  then  the  hero 
awoke.  Whipping  out  his  hunting-sword,  "  To 
arms!  to  arms!"  he  roared  to  the  passengers; 
and  away  he  flew,  the  foremost  of  all,  upon  the 
buccaneers. 


92  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"Ques  aco!  What's  the  stir?  What's  the 
matter  with  you?"  exclaimed  Captain  Barbas- 
sou, coming  out  of  the  'tweendecks. 

"About  time  you  did  turn  up,  captain! 
>Quick,  quick,  arm  your  men!" 

"  Eh,  what  for?   dash  it  all!" 

"Why,  can't  you  see?" 

"  See  what?" 

"  There,  before  you,  the  corsairs  " 

Captain  Barbassou  stared,  bewildered.  At 
this  juncture  a  tall  blackamoor  tore  by  with  our 
hero's  medicine-chest  upon  his  back. 

"You  cut-throat!  just  wait  for  me!"  yelled 
ihe  Tarasconer  as  he  ran  after,  with  knife  up- 
lifted. 

But  Barbassou  caught  him  in  the  spring,  and 
holding  him  by  the  waist-sash,  bade  him  be 
quiet. 

"Tron  de  ler!  by  the  throne  on  high!  they're 
no  pirates.  It's  long  since  there  were  any 
pirates  hereabout.  Those  dark  porters  are 
light  porters.  Ha,  ha!" 

"  P — p — porters?" 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  93 

"  Rather,  only  come  after  the  luggage  to  carry 
it  ashore.  So  put  up  your  cook's  galley  knife, 
give  me  your  ticket,  and  walk  off  behind  that 
nigger — an  honest  dog,  who  will  see  you  to 
land,  and  even  into  a  hotel,  if  you  like." 

A  little  abashed,  Tartarin  handed  over  his 
ticket,  and  falling  in  behind  the  representative 
of  the  Dark  Continent,  clambered  down  by  the 
hanging-ladder  into  a  big  skiff  dancing  along- 
side. All  his  effects  were  already  there — boxes, 
trunks,  gun-cases,  tinned  food, — so  cramming 
up  the  boat  that  there  was  no  need  to  wait  for 
any  other  passengers.  The  African  scrambled 
upon  the  boxes,  and  squatted  there  like  a 
baboon,  with  his  knees  clutched  by  his  hands. 
Another  negro  took  the  oars.  Both  laughingly 
eyed  Tartarin,  and  showed  their  white  teeth. 

Standing  in  the  stern-sheets,  making  that  ter- 
rifying face  which  had  daunted  his  fellow-coun- 
trymen, the  great  Tarasconian  feverishly  fum- 
bled with  his  hunting-knife  haft;  for,  despite 
what  Barbassou  had  told  him,  he  was  only  half 
at  ease  as  regarded  the  intention  of  these  ebony- 


94  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

skinned  porters,  who  so  little  resembled  their 
honest  mates  of  Tarascon. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  skiff  landed  Tar- 
tarin,  and  he  set  foot  upon  the  little  Barbary 
wharf,  where,  three  hundred  years  before,  a 
Spanish  galley-slave  yclept  Miguel  Cervantes 
devised,  under  the  cane  of  the  Algerian  task- 
master, a  sublime  romance  which  was  to  bear 
the  title  of  "  Don  Quiiote." 


CHAPTER   III. 

AN  INVOCATION*  TO  CERVANTES. — THE  DISEM- 
BARKATION.— WHERE  ARE  THE  TURKS? — NOT 
A  SIGN  OF  THEM. — DISENCHANTMENT. 

0  MIGUEL  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA,  if  what  is 
asserted  be  true,  to  wit,  that  wherever  great 
men  have  dwelt  some  emanation  of  their  spirits 
wanderingly  hovers  until  the  end  of  ages,  then 
what  remained  of  your  essence  on  the  Barbary 
coast  must  have  quivered  with  glee  on  behold- 
ing Tartarin  of  Tarascon  disembark,  that  mar- 
velous type  of  the  French  Southerner,  in  whom 
was  embodied  both  heroes  of  your  work,  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza. 

The  air  was  sultry  on  this  occasion.  On  the 
wharf,  ablaze  with  sunshine,  were  half  a  dozen 
revenue  officers,  some  Algerians  expecting  news 
from  France,  several  squatting  Moors  who  drew 
at  long  pipes,  and  some  Maltese  mariners  drag- 
ging large  nets,  between  the  meshes  of  which 

95 


96  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

thousands  of  sardines  glittered  like  small  silver 
coins. 

'  But  hardly  had  Tartarin  set  foot  on  earth  be- 
fore the  quay  sprang  into  life  and  changed  its 
aspect.  A  horde  of  savages,  still  more  hideous 
than  the  pirates  upon  the  steamer,  rose  between 
the  stones  on  the  strand  and  rushed  upon  the 
new-comer.  Tall  Arabs  were  there,  nude  under 
woolen  blankets,  little  Moors  in  tatters,  ne- 
groes, Tunisians,  Port  Mahonese,  M'zabites, 
hotel  servants  in  white  aprons,  all  yelling  and 
shouting,  hooking  on  his  clothes,  fighting  over 
his  luggage,  one  carrying  away  the  provender, 
another  his  medicine-chest,  and  pelting  him  in 
one  fantastic  medley  with  the  names  of  prepos- 
terously-entitled hotels. 

Bewildered  by  all  this  tumult,  poor  Tartarin 
wandered  to  and  fro,  swore  and  stormed,  went 
mad,  ran  after  his  property,  and  not  knowing 
how  to  make  these  barbarians  understand  him, 
speechified  them  in  French,  Provengal,  and 
even  in  dog  Latin:  "Eosa,  the  rose;  bonus,  bona, 
bonum!" — all  that  he  knew — but  to  no  purpose. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  97 

He  was  not  heeded.  Happily,  like  a  god  in 
Homer,  intervened  a  little  fellow  in  a  yellow- 
collared  tunic,  and  armed  with  a  long  running- 
footman's  cane,  who  dispersed  the  whole  riff- 
raff with  cudgel-play.  He  was  a  policeman  of 
the  Algerian  capital.  Very  politely,  he  sug- 
gested Tartarin  should  put  up  at  the  Hotel  de 
1'Europe,  and  he  confided  him  to  its  waiters, 
who  carted  him  and  his  impedimenta  thither  in 
several  barrows. 

At  the  first  steps  he  took  in  Algiers,  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  opened  his  eyes  widely.  Before- 
hand he  had  pictured  it  as  an  Oriental  city — 
a  fair}*  one,  mythological,  something  between 
Constantinople  and  Zanzibar;  but  it  was  back 
into  Tarascon  he  fell.  Cafes,  restaurants,  wide 
streets,  four-story  houses,  a  little  market-place, 
macadamized,  where  the  infantry  band  played 
OfTenbachian  polkas,  whilst  fashionably  clad 
gentlemen  occupied  chairs,  drinking  beer  and 
eating  pancakes,  some  brilliant  ladies,  some 
shady  ones,  and  soldiers — more  soldiers — no  end 
of  soldiers,  but  not  a  solitary  Turk,  or,  better 


98  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

to  say,  there  was  a  solitary  Turk,  and  that  was 
he. 

Hence  he  felt  a  little  abashed  ahout  crossing 
the  square,  for  everybody  looked  at  him.  The 
musicians  stopped,  the  Offenbachian  polka  halt- 
ing with  one  foot  in  the  air. 

With  both  guns  on  his  shoulders,  and  the  re- 
volver flapping  on  his  hip,  as  fierce  and  stately 
as  Robinson  Crusoe,  Tartarin  gravely  passed 
through  the  groups;  but  on  arriving  at  the  hotel 
his  powers  failed  him.  All  spun  and  mingled 
in  his  head:  the  departure  from  Tarascon,  the 
harbor  of  Marseilles,  the  voyage,  the  Montene- 
grin prince,  the  corsairs.  They  had  to  help 
him  up  into  a  room  and  disarm  and  undress 
him.  They  began  to  talk  of  sending  for  a  medi- 
cal adviser;  but  hardly  was  our  hero's  head  upon 
the  pillow  than  he  set  to  snoring,  so  loudly  and 
so  heartily  that  the  landlord  judged  the  succor 
of  science  useless,  and  everybody  considerately 
withdrew. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   FIRST   LYING   INT   WAIT. 

THREE  o'clock  was  striking  by  the  Gover- 
ment  clock  when  Tartarin  awoke.  He  had 
slept  all  the  evening,  night,  and  morning,  and 
even  a  goodish  piece  of  the  afternoon.  It  must 
be  granted,  though,  that  in  the  last  three  days 
the  red  fez  had  caught  it  pretty  hot  and  lively! 

Our  hero's  first  thought  on  opening  his  eyes 
was,  "  I  am  in  the  land  of  the  lions!"  And — 
well,  why  should  we  not  say  it? — at  the  idea 
that  lions  were  nigh  hereabouts,  within  a  couple 
of  steps3  almost  at  hand's  reach,  and  that  he 
would  have  to  disentangle  a  snarled  skein  with 
them,  ugh!  a  deadly  chill  struck  him,  and  he 
dived  intrepidly  under  the  coverlet. 

But,  before  a  moment  was  over,  the  outward 
gayety,  the  blue  sky,  the  glowing  sun  that 
streamed  into  the  bedchamber,  a  nice  little 
breakfast  that  he  ate  in  bed,  his  window  wide 


100  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

open  upon  the  sea,  the  whole  flavored  with  an 
uncommonly  good  bottle  of  Crescia  wine — it 
very  speedily  restored  him  his  former  plucki- 
ness. 

"Let's  out  and  at  the  lion!"  he  exclaimed, 
throwing  off  the  clothes  and  briskly  dressing 
himself. 

His  plan  was  as  follows:  he  would  go  forth 
from  the  city  without  saying  a  word  to  a  soul, 
plunge  into  the  great  desert,  await  nightfall  to 
ambush  himself,  and  bang  away  at  the  first  lion 
who  walked  up.  Then  would  he  return  to 
breakfast  in  the  morning  at  the  hotel,  receive 
the  felicitations  of  the  natives,  and  hire  a  cart 
to  bring  in  the  quarry. 

So  he  hurriedly  armed  himself,  attached  up- 
right on  his  back  the  shelter-tent  (which,  when 
rolled  up,  left  its  centre  pole  sticking  out  a  clear 
foot  above  his  head),  and  descended  to  the 
street  as  stiffly  as  though  he  had  swallowed  it. 
Not  caring  to  ask  the  way  of  anybody,  from 
fear  of  letting  out  his  project,  he  turned  fairly 
to  the  right,  and  threaded  the  Bab-Azoon  arcade 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon 


To  arms  !  To  arms  ! 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  101 

to  the  very  end.  where  swarms  of  Algerian  Jews 
watched  him  pass  from  their  corner  ambushes, 
like  so  many  spiders;  crossing  the  Theatre  place> 
he  entered  the  outer  ward,  and  lastly  came  upon 
the  dusty  Mustapha  highway. 

Upon  this  was  a  quaint  conglomeration:  om- 
nibuses, hackney  coaches,  corricolos,  the  army 
service  wagons,  huge  hay-carts  drawn  by  bul- 
locks, squads  of  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  droves  of 
microscopic  asses,  trucks  of  Alsatian  emigrants, 
spahis  in  scarlet  cloaks — all  filed  by  in  a  whirl- 
wind cloud  of  dust,  amidst  shouts,  songs,  and 
trumpet-calls,  between  two  rows  of  vile-looking 
booths,  at  the  doors  of  which  lanky  MaJwnnais 
women  might  be  seen  doing  their  hair,  drink- 
ing-dens  filled  with  soldiers,  and  shops  of 
butchers  and  knackers. 

"  What  rubbish,  to  din  me  about  the  Orient!'* 
grumbled  the  great  Tartarin;  "  there  are  not 
even  as  many  Turks  here  as  at  Marseilles." 

All  of  a  sudden  he  saw  a  splendid  camel  strut 
by  him  quite  closely,  stretching  its  long  legs 
and  puffing  out  its  throat  like  a  turkey-cock,. 


102  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

and  that  made  his  heart  throb.  Camels  al- 
ready, eh?  Lions  could  not  be  far  off  now;  and, 
indeed,  in  five  minutes'  time  he  did  see  a  whole 
band  of  lion-hunters  coming  his  way  under 
arms. 

"Cowards!"  thought  our  hero  as  he  skirted 
them;  "  downright  cowards,  to  go  at  a  lion  in 
companies  and  with  dogs!" 

For  it  never  could  occur  to  him  that  any- 
thing but  lions  were  objects  of  the  chase  in 
Algeria.  For  all  that,  these  Nimrods  wore  such 
complacent  phizzes  of  retired  tradesmen,  and 
their  style  of  lion-hunting  with  dogs  and  game- 
bags  was  so  patriarchal,  that  the  Tarasconian, 
a  little  perplexed,  deemed  it  incumbent  to  ques- 
tion one  of  the  gentlemen. 

"And  furthermore,  comrade,  is  the  sport 
.good?" 

"Not  bad,"  responded  the  other,  regarding 
the  speaker's  imposing  warlike  equipment  with 
a  scared  eye. 

"Killed  any?" 

"Rather!     Not  so  bad— only  look." 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  103 

Whereupon  the  Algerian  sportsman  showed 
that  it  was  rabbits  and  woodcock  stuffing  out 
the  bag. 

"  What!  do  you  call  that  your  bag?  Do  you 
put  such-like  in  your  bag?" 

"  Where  else  should  I  put  'em?" 

"  But  it's  such  little  game." 

"  Some  run  small  and  some  run  large,"  ob- 
served the  hunter. 

In  haste  to  catch  up  with  his  companions,  he 
joined  them  with  several  long  strides.  The 
dauntless  Tartarin  remained  rooted  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road  with  stupefaction. 

"Pooh!"  he  ejaculated,  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection, "  these  are  jokers.  They  haven't  killed 
anything  whatever;"  and  he  went  his  way. 

Already  the  houses  became  scarcer,  and  so 
did  the  passengers.  Dark  came  on  and  objects 
were  blurred,  though  Tartarin  walked  on  for 
half  an  hour  more,  when  he  stopped,  for  it 
was  night.  A  moonless  night,  too,  but  sprinkled 
with  stars.  On  the  highroad  there  was  no- 
body. The  hero  concluded  that  lions  are  not 


104  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

stage-coaches,  and  would  not  of  their  own 
choice  travel  the  main  ways.  So  he  wheeled 
into  the  fields,  where  there  were  brambles  and 
ditches  and  bushes  at  every  step,  but  he  kept 
on  nevertheless. 

But  suddenly  he  halted. 
"  I  smell  iions  about  here!"  said  our  friend, 
sniffing  right  and  left. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BANG,  BANG  ! 

CERTAINLY  a  great  wilderness,  bristling  with 
odd  plants  of  that  Oriental  kind  which  look  like 
wicked  creatures.  Under  the  feeble  starlight 
their  magnified  shadows  barred  the  ground  in. 
every  way.  On  the  right  loomed  up  confusedly 
the  heavy  mass  of  a  mountain — perhaps  the 
Atlas  range.  On  the  heart-hand,  the  invisible 
sea  hollowly  rolling.  The  very  spot  to  attract 
wild  beasts. 

With  one  gun  laid  before  him  and  the  other 
in  his  grasp,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  went  down 
on  one  knee  and  waited  an  hour,  ay,  a  good 
couple,  and  nothing  turned  up.  Then  he  be- 
thought him  how,  in  his  books,  the  great  lion- 
slayers  never  went  out  hunting  without  having 
a  lamb  or  kid  along  with  them,  which  they 
tied  up  a  space  before  them,  and  set  bleating 
or  baa-ing  by  jerking  its  foot  with  a  string. 

105 


10G  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Not  having  any  goat,  the  Tarasconer  had  the 
idea  of  employing  an  imitation,  and  he  set  to 
crying  in  a  tremulous  voice: 

"Baa-a-a!" 

At  first  it  was  done  very  softly,  because  at 
bottom  he  was  a  little  alarmed  lest  the  lion 
should  hear  him;  but  as  nothing  came,  he  baa-ed 
more  loudly.  Still  nothing.  Losing  patience, 
he  resumed  many  times  running  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  till  the  "Baa,  baa,  baa!"  came  out 
with  so  much  power  that  the  goat  began  to 
be  mistakable  for  a  bull. 

Unexpectedly,  a  few  steps  in  front,  some  gi- 
gantic black  thing  appeared.  He  was  hushed. 
This  thing  lowered  its  head,  sniffed  the  ground, 
bounded  up,  rolled  over,  and  darted  off  at  the 
gallop,  but  returned  and  stopped  short.  Who 
could  doubt  it  was  the  lion?  for  now  its  four 
legs  could  plainly  be  seen,  its  formidable  mane 
and  its  large  eyes  gleaming  in  the  gloom 

Up  went  his  gun  into  position.  Fire's  the 
word!  and  bang,  bang!  it  was  done.  And  im- 
mediately there  was  a  leap  back  and  the  drawing 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  107 

of  the  hunting-knife.  To  the  Tarasconian's 
shot  a  terrible  roaring  replied. 

"He's  got  it!"  cried  our  good  Tartarin  as. 
steadying  himself  on  his  sturdy  supporters,  he 
prepared  to  receive  the  brute's  charge. 

But  it  had  more  than  its  fill,  and  galloped 
off,  howling.  He  did  not  budge,  for  he  ex- 
pected to  see  the  female  mate  appear,  as  the 
story-books  always  lay  it  down  she  should. 

Unhappily,  no  female  came.  After  two  or 
three  hours'  waiting  the  Tarasconian  grew  tired. 
The  ground  was  damp,  the  night  was  getting 
cool,  and  the  sea-breeze  pricked  sharply. 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  take  a  nap  till  day- 
light," he  said  to  himself. 

To  avoid  catching  rheumatism,  he  had  re- 
course to  his  patent  tent.  But  here's  where 
Old  Xick  interfered!  This  tent  was  of  so  very 
ingenious  a  contraction  that  he  could  not  man- 
age to  open  it.  In  vain  did  he  toil  over  it  and 
perspire  an  hour  through — the  confounded  ap- 
paratus would  not  come  unfolded.  There  are 
some  umbrellas  which  amuse  themselves  under 


108  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

torrential  rains  with  just  such  tricks  upon  you. 
Fairly  tired  out  with  the  struggle,  the  victim 
dashed  down  the  machine  and  lay  upon  it, 
iswearing  like  the  regular  Southron  he  was. 

"Tar,  tar,  rar,  tar!   tar,rar,  tar!" 

"What  on  earth's  that?"  wondered  Tartarin, 
•suddenly  aroused. 

It  was  the  bugles  of  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique 
sounding  the  turn-out  in  the  Mustapha  bar- 
racks. The  stupefied  lion-slayer  rubbed  his 
•eyes,  for  he  had  believed  himself  out  in  the 
boundless  wilderness;  and  do  you  know  where 
he  really  was? — in  a  field  of  artichokes,  be- 
tween a  cabbage-garden  and  a  patch  of  beets. 
His  Sahara  grew  kitchen  vegetables. 

Close  to  him,  on  the  pretty  verdant  slope  of 
Upper  Mustapha,  the  snowy  villas  glowed  in  the 
rosy  rising  sun:  anybody  would  believe  himself 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Marseilles,  amongst  its 
baslides  and  lastidons. 

The  commonplace  and  kitchen-gardenish  as- 
pect of  this  sleep-steeped  country  much  aston- 
ished the  poor  man,  and  put  him  in  bad  humor. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  100 

"  These  folk  are  crazy,"  he  reasoned,  "  to 
plant  artichokes  in  the  prowling-ground  of 
lions;  for,  in  short,  I  have  not  been  dreaming. 
Lions  have  come  here,  and  there's  the  proof." 

What  he  called  the  proof  was  blood-spots  left 
behind  the  beast  in  its  flight.  Bending  over 
this  ruddy  trail,  with  his  eye  on  the  lookout 
and  his  revolver  in  his  fist,  the  valiant  Taras- 
conian  went  from  artichoke  to  artichoke  up  to 
a  little  field  of  oats.  In  the  trampled  grass  was 
a  pool  of  blood,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  pool, 
lying  on  its  flank,  with  a  large  wound  in  the 
head,  was  a — guess  what? 

"A  lion,  of  course!" 

Not  a  bit  of  it!  An  ass! — one  of  those  little 
donkeys  so  common  in  Algeria,  where  they  are 
called  bourriquots. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ARRIVAL    OF    THE    FEMALE. A    TERRIBLE    COM- 
BAT.— "  GAME  FELLOWS  MEET  HERE  !  " 

LOOKING  on  his  hapless  victim,  Tartarin's 
first  impulse  was  one  of  vexation.  There  is 
such  a  wide  gap  between  a  lion  and  poor  Jack! 
His  second  feeling  was  one  of  pity.  The  poor 
bourriquot  was  so  pretty  and  looked  so  kindly. 
The  hide  on  his  still  warm  sides  heaved  and 
fell  like  waves.  Tartarin  knelt  down,  and 
strove  with  the  end  of  his  Algerian  sash  to 
stanch  the  blood;  and  all  you  can  imagine  in  the 
way  of  touchingness  was  offered  by  the  picture 
of  this  great  man  tending  this  little  ass. 

At  the  touch  of  the  silky  cloth  the  donkey, 
who  had  not  twopennyworth  of  life  in  him, 
opened  his  large  grey  eye  and  winked  his  long 
ears  two  or  three  times,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Oh, 
thank  you!"  before  a  final  spasm  shook  it  from 

head  to  tail,  whereafter  it  stirred  no  more. 

no 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  Ill 

"Xoiraud!  Blackey!"  suddenly  screamed  a 
voice,  choking  with  anguish,  as  the  branches  in 
a  thicket  hard  by  moved  at  the  same  time. 

Tartarin  had  no  more  than  enough  time  to 
rise  and  stand  upon  guard.  This  was  the 
female! 

She  rushed  up,  fearsome  and  roaring,  under 
form  of  an  old  Alsatian  woman,  her  hair  in  a 
kerchief,  armed  with  large  red  umbrella,  and 
calling  for  her  ass,  till  all  the  echoes  of  Musta- 
pha  rang.  It  certainly  would  have  been  better 
for  Tartarin  to  have  had  to  deal  with  a  lioness 
in  fury  than  this  old  virago.  In  vain  did  the 
luckless  sportsman  try  to  make  her  understand 
how  the  blunder  had  occurred,  and  he  had  mis- 
taken "  Noiraud "  for  a  lion.  The  harridan 
believed  he  was  making  fun  of  her,  and  uttering 
energetical  "  Der  Teufels!"  fell  upon  our  hero 
to  bang  him  with  the  gingham.  A  little  be- 
wildered, Tartarin  defended  himself  as  best  he 
could,  warding  off  the  blows  with  his  rifle, 
streaming  with  perspiration,  panting,  jumping 
about,  and  crying  out: 

"  But,  Madame,  but  " 


112  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Much  good  his  buts  were!  Madame  was  dull 
of  hearing,  and  her  blows  continued  hard  as 
ever. 

Fortunately  a  third  party  arrived  on  the  bat- 
tlefield, the  Alsatian's  husband,  of  the  same 
race;  a  roadside  innkeeper,  as  well  as  a  very 
good  ready-reckoner,  which  was  better.  When 
he  saw  what  kind  of  a  customer  he  had  to  deal 
with — a  slaughterer  who  only  wanted  to  pay  the 
value  of  his  victim — he  disarmed  his  better- 
half,  and  they  came  to  an  understanding. 

Tartarin  gave  two  hundred  francs,  the  donkey 
being  worth  about  ten — at  least  that  is  the  cur- 
rent price  in  the  Arab  markets.  Then  poor 
Blackey  was  laid  to  rest  at  the  root  of  a  fig-tree, 
and  the  Alsatian,  raised  to  joviality  by  the 
color  of  the  Tarascon  ducats,  invited  the  hero 
to  have  a  quencher  with  him  in  his  wine-shop, 
which  stood  only  a  few  steps  off  on  the  edge 
of  the  highway.  Every  Sunday  the  sportsmen 
from  the  city  came  there  to  regale  of  a  morn- 
ing, for  the  plain  abounded  with  game,  and 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  113 

there  was  no  better  place  for  rabbits  for  two 
leagues  around. 

"  How  about  lions?"  inquired  Tartarin. 

The  Alsatian  stared  at  him,  greatly  as- 
tounded. 

"  Lions!" 

"  Yes,  lions.  Don't  you  see  them  some- 
times?" resumed  the  poor  fellow,  with  less  con- 
fidence. 

The  Boniface  burst  out  in  laughter. 

"Ho,  ho!  bless  us!  lions!  What  would  we 
do  with  lions  here?" 

"Are  there,  then,  none  in  Algeria?" 

"  Ton  my  faith,  I  never  saw  any,  albeit  I 
have  been  twenty  years  in  the  colony.  Still,  I 
believe  I  have  heard  tell  of  such  a  thing — least- 
wise, I  fancy  the  newspapers  said — but  that  is 
ever  so  much  farther  inland — down  South,  you 
know  " 


At  this  point  they  reached  the  hostelry- 
suburban    pothouse,    with    a    withered    green 
bough    over    the    door,    crossed    billiard-cues 


114  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

painted  on  the  wall,  and  this  harmless  sign 
over  a  picture  of  wild  rabbits  feeding: 

"  GAME  FELLOWS  MEET  HERE." 

"  Game  fellows!"     It  made  Tartarin  think  of 
Captain  Bravida, 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ABOUT  AX  OMNIBUS,  A  MOORISH  BEAUTY,  AND 
A  WREATH  OF  JESSAMINE. 

COMMON  people  would  have  been  discour- 
aged by  such  a  first  adventure,  but  men  of  Tar- 
tarin's  mettle  do  not  easily  get  cast  down. 

"  The  lions  are  in  the  South,  are  they?'* 
mused  the  hero.  "  Very  well,  then.  South  I 

go." 

As  soon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  last  mouth- 
ful he  jumped  up,  thanked  his  host,  nodded 
good-bye  to  the  old  hag  without  any  ill-will, 
dropped  a  final  tear  over  the  hapless  Blackey, 
and  quickly  returned  to  Algiers,  with  the  firm 
intention  of  packing  up  and  starting  that  very 
day  for  the  South. 

The  Mustapha  highroad  seemed,  unfortu- 
nately, to  have  stretched  since  overnight;  and 
what  a  sun  and  dust  there  were,  and  what  a 
weight  in  that  shelter-tent!  Tartarin  did  not 

115 


11C  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

feel  to  have  the  courage  to  walk  to  the  town, 
and  he  beckoned  to  the  first  omnibus  coming 
along,  and  climbed  in. 

Oh,  our  poor  Tartarin  of  Tarascon!  how 
much  better  it  would  have  been  for  his  name 
and  fame  not  to  have  stepped  into  that  fatal 
ark  on  wheels,  but  to  have  continued  on  his 
road  afoot,  at  the  risk  of  falling  suffocated  be- 
neath the  burden  of  the  atmosphere,  the  tent, 
and  his  heavy  double-barrelled  rifles. 

When  Tartarin  got  in  the  'bus  was  full.  At 
the  end,  with  his  nose  in  his  prayer-book,  sat  a 
large  and  black-bearded  vicar  from  town;  facing 
him  was  a  young  Moorish  merchant  smoking 
coarse  cigarettes,  and  a  Maltese  sailor  and  four 
or  five  Moorish  women  muffled  up  in  white 
cloths,  so  that  only  their  eyes  could  be  spied. 
These  ladies  had  been  to  offer  up  prayers  in  the 
Abdel  Kader  cemetery;  but  this  funereal  visit 
did  not  seem  to  have  much  saddened  them,  for 
they  could  be  heard  chuckling  and  chattering 
between  themselves  under  their  coverings  whilst 
munching  pastry.  Tartarin  fancied  that  they 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  117 

watched  him  narrowly.  One  in  particular, 
seated  over  against  him,  had  fixed  her  eyes  upon 
his,  and  never  took  them  off  all  the  drive.  Al- 
though the  dame  was  veiled,  the  liveliness  of  the 
big  black  eyes,  lengthened  out  by  WJiol;  a  de- 
lightfully slender  wrist  loaded  with  gold  brace- 
lets, of  which  a  glimpse  was  given  from  time  to 
time  among  the  folds;  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
the  graceful,  almost  childlike,  movements  of  the 
head,  all  revealed  that  a  young,  pretty,  and  lova- 
ble creature  bloomed  underneath  the  veil.  The 
unfortunate  Tartarin  did  not  know  where  to 
shrink.  The  fond,  mute  gaze  of  these  splen- 
drous  Oriental  orbs  agitated  him,  perturbed 
him,  and  made  him  feel  like  dying  with  flushes 
of  heat  and  fits  of  cold  shivers. 

To  finish  him,  the  lady's  slipper  meddled  in 
the  onslaught:  he  felt  the  dainty  thing  wander 
and  frisk  about  over  his  heavy  hunting  boots 
like  a  tiny  red  mouse.  What  could  he  do  ? 
Answer  the  glance  and  the  pressure,  of  course. 
Ay,  but  what  about  the  consequences?  A  lov- 
ing intrigue  in  the  East  is  a  terrible  matter! 


118  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

With  his  romantic  southern  nature,  the  honest 
Tarasconian  saw  himself  already  falling  into  the 
grip  of  the  eunuchs,  to  be  decapitated,  or  better 
— we  mean,  worse — than  that,  sewn  up  in  a 
leather  sack  and  sunk  in  the  sea  with  his  head 
under  his  arm  beside  him.  This  somewhat 
cooled  him.  In  the  meantime  the  little  slipper 
continued  its  proceedings,  and  the  eyes,  widely 
open  opposite  him  like  twin  black  velvet  flowers, 
seemed  to  say: 

"  Come,  cull  us!" 

The  'bus  stopped  on  the  Theatre  place,  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Rue  Bab-Azoon.  One  by  one, 
embedded  in  their  voluminous  trousers,  and 
drawing  their  mufflers  around  them  with  wild 
grace,  the  Moorish  women  alighted.  Tartarin's 
confrontatress  was  the  last  to  rise,  and  in  doing 
so  her  countenance  skimmed  so  closely  to  our 
hero's  that  her  breath  enveloped  him — a  verita- 
ble nosegay  of  youth  and  freshness,  with  an  in- 
describable after-tang  of  musk,  jessamine,  and 
pastry. 

The  Tarasconian  stood  out  no  longer.     In- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  119 

toxicated  with  love,  and  ready  for  anything,  he 
darted  out  after  the  beauty.  At  the  rumpling 
sound  of  his  belts  and  boots  she  turned,  laid  a 
finger  on  her  veiled  mouth,  as  who  would  say, 
"  Hush !"  and  with  the  other  hand  quickly 
tossed  him  a  little  wreath  of  sweet-scented  jes- 
samine flowers.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  stooped 
to  pick  it  up;  but  as  he  was  rather  clumsy,  and 
much  overburdened  with  implements  of  war, 
the  operation  took  rather  long.  When  he  did 
straighten  up,  with  the  jessamine  garland  upon 
his  heart,  the  donatrix  had  vanished. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

YE   LIONS  OF  THE   ATLAS,   REPOSE   IN   PEACE  ! 

LIONS  of  the  Atlas,  sleep! — sleep  tranquilly 
at  the  back  of  your  lairs  amid  the  aloes  and 
cacti.  For  a  few  days  to  come,  any  way,  Tar- 
tarin  of  Tarascon  will  not  massacre  you.  For 
the  time  being,  all  his  warlike  paraphernalia, 
gun-cases,  medicine-chest,  alimentary  preserves, 
dwelt  peacefully  under  cover  in  a  corner  of 
room  36  in  the  Hotel  de  1'Europe. 

Sleep  with  no  fear,  great  red  lions,  the  Taras- 
conian  is  engaged  in  looking  up  that  Moorish 
charmer.  Since  the  adventure  in  the  omnibus, 
the  unfortunate  swain  perpetually  fancied  he 
felt  the  fidgeting  of  that  petty  red  mouse  upon 
his  huge  backwoods  trapper's  foot;  and  the 
sea-breeze  fanning  his  lips  was  ever  scented,  do 
what  he  would,  with  a  love-exciting  odor  of 
sweetcakes  and  patchouli. 

129 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  121 

He  hungered  for  his  indispensable  light  of 
the  harem!  and  he  meant  to  behold  her  anew. 

But  it  was  no  joke  of  a  task.  To  find  one 
certain  person  in  a  city  of  a  hundred  thousand 
souls,  only  known  by  the  eyes,  breath,  and  slip- 
per,— none  but  a  son  of  Tarascon,  panoplied  by 
love,  would  be  capable  of  attempting  such  an 
adventure. 

The  plague  is  that,  under  their  broad  white 
mufflers,  all  the  Moorish  women  resemble  one 
another;  besides,  they  do  not  go  about  much, 
and  to  see  them,  a  man  has  to  climb  up  into  the 
native  or  upper  town,  the  city  of  the  "Turks," 
and  that  is  a  regular  cut-throat's  den. 

Little  black  alleys,  very  narrow,  climbing  per- 
pendicularly up  between  mysterious  house-wall?, 
whose  roofs  lean  to  touching  and  form  a  tunnel : 
low  doors,  and  sad.  silent  little  casements,  well 
barred  and  grated.  Moreover,  on  both  hands, 
stacks  of  darksome  stalls,  wherein  ferocious 
"  Turks  "  smoked  long  pipes  stuck  between  glit- 
tering teeth  in  piratical  heads  with  white  eyes, 


122  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

and    mumbled    in   undertones    as   if   hatching 
wicked  attacks. 

To  say  that  Tartarin  traversed  this  grizzly 
place  without  any  emotion  would  be  putting 
forth  falsehood.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  much 
affected,  and  the  stout  fellow  only  went  up  the 
obscure  lanes,  where  his  corporation  took  up  all 
the  width,  with  the  utmost  precaution,  his  eye 
skinned,  and  his  finger  on  his  revolver  trigger, 
in  the  same  manner  as  he  went  to  the  clubhouse 
at  Tarascon.  At  any  moment  he  expected  to 
have  a  whole  gang  of  eunuchs  and  janissaries 
drop  upon  his  back,  yet  the  longing  to  behold 
that  dark  damsel  again  gave  him  a  giant's 
strength  and  boldness. 

For  a  full  week  the  undaunted  Tartarin 
never  quitted  the  high  town.  Yes;  for  all  that 
period  he  might  have  been  seen  cooling  his  heels 
before  the  Turkish  bath-houses,  awaiting  the 
hour  when  the  ladies  came  forth  in  troops,  shiv- 
ering and  still  redolent  of  soap  and  hot  water; 
or  squatting  at  the  doorways  of  mosques,  puff- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  123 

ing  and  melting  in  trying  to  get  out  of  his  big 
boots  in  order  to  enter  the  temples. 

Betimes  at  nightfall,  when  he  was  returning 
heart-broken  at  not  having  discovered  anything 
at  either  bagnio  or  mosque,  our  man  from  Ta- 
rascon, in  passing  mansions,  would  hear  monot- 
onous songs,  smothered  twanging  of  guitars, 
thumping  of  tambourines,  and  feminine  laugh- 
ter-peals, which  would  make  his  heart  beat. 

"  Haply  she  is  there!"  he  would  say  to  him- 
self. 

Thereupon,  granting  the  street  was  unpeo- 
pled, he  would  go  up  to  one  of  these  dwellings, 
lift  the  heavy  knocker  of  the  low  postern,  and 
timidly  rap.  The  songs  and  merriment  would 
instantly  cease.  There  would  be  audible  be- 
hind the  wall  nothing  excepting  low,  dull  flut- 
terings  as  in  a  slumbering  aviary. 

"  Let's  stick  to  it,  old  boy,"  our  hero  would 
think.  "  Something  will  befall  us  yet." 

What  most  often  befell  him  was  the  contents 
of  the  cold-water  jug  on  the  head,  or  else  peel 


124  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

of  oranges  and   Barbary  figs;  never  anything 
more  serious. 

Well  might  the  lions  of  the  Atlas  Mountains 
doze  in  peace. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

PRIXCE    GREGORY    OF    MON'TEKEGRO. 

IT  was  two  long  weeks  that  the  unfortunate 
Tartarin  had  been  seeking  his  Algerian  flame, 
and  most  likely  he  would  have  been  seeking 
after  her  to  this  day  if  the  little  god  kind  to 
lovers  had  not  come  to  his  help  under  the  shape 
of  a  Montenegrin  nobleman. 

It  happened  as  follows: 

Every  Saturday  night  in  winter  there  is  a 
masked  ball  at  the  Grand  Theatre  of  Algiers, 
just  as  at  the  Paris  Opera-House.  It  is  the  un- 
dying and  ever-tasteless  county  fancy  dress  ball 
— very  few  people  on  the  floor,  several  casta- 
ways from  the  Parisian  students'  ball-rooms  or 
midnight  dance-houses,  Joans  of  Arc  following 
the  army,  faded  characters  out  of  the  Gavarni 
costume-book  of  1840,  and  half-a-dozen  laun- 
dress's underlings  who  are  aiming  to  make  loft- 
ier conquests,  but  still  preserve  a  faint  per- 

125 


126  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

fume  of  their  former  life — garlic  and  saffron 
sauce.  The  real  spectacle  is  not  there,  but  in 
the  green-room,  transformed  for  the  nonce  into 
a  hall  of  green  cloth  or  gaming  saloon. 

An  enfevered  and  motley  mob  hustle  one  an- 
other around  the  long  green  table-covers:  Tur- 
cos  out  for  the  day  and  staking  their  double  half- 
pence, Moorish  traders  from  the  native  town, 
negroes,  Maltese,  colonists  from  the  inland,  who 
have  come  forty  leagues  in  order  to  risk  on  a 
turning  card  the  price  of  a  plough  or  of  a  yoke 
of  oxen;  all  a-quivering,  pale,  clenching  their 
teeth,  and  with  that  singular,  wavering  sidelong 
look  of  the  gamester,  become  a  squint  always 
staring  at  the  same  card  in  the  lay-out. 

A  little  apart  are  the  tribes  of  Algerian  Jews, 
playing  among  acquaintances.  The  men  are 
in  the  Oriental  costume,  hideously  varied 
with  blue  stockings  and  velvet  caps.  The  puffy 
and  flabby  women  sit  up  stiffly  in  tight  golden 
bodices.  Grouped  around  the  tables,  the  whole 
tribe  wail,  squeal,  combine,  reckon  on  the  fin- 
gers, and  play  but  little.  Now  and  anon,  how- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  127 

ever,  after  long  conferences,  some  old  patriarch, 
with  a  beard  like  those  of  saints  by  the  Old 
Masters,  detaches  himself  from  the  party  and 
goes  to  risk  the  family  duro.  As  long  as  the 
game  lasted  there  would  be  a  scintillation  of 
Hebraic  eyes  directed  on  the  board — dreadful 
black  diamonds,  which  made  the  gold  pieces 
shiver,  and  ended  by  gently  attracting  them,  as 
if  drawn  by  a  thread.  Then  arose  wrangles, 
quarrels,  battles,  oaths  of  every  land,  mad  out- 
cries in  all  tongues,  knives  flashing  out,  the 
guard  marching  in,  and  the  money  disappear- 
ing. 

It  was  into  the  thick  of  this  saturnalia  that 
the  great  Tartarin  came  straying  one  evening 
to  find  oblivion  and  heart's  ease. 

He  was  roving  alone  through  the  gathering, 
brooding  about  his  Moorish  beauty,  when  two 
angered  voices  arose  suddenly  from  a  gaming- 
table above  all  the  clamour  and  chink  of  coin. 

"  I  tell  you,  M'sieu,  that  I  am  twenty  francs 
short!" 

"Stuff,  M'sieu!" 


128  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  Stuff  yourself,  M'sieu!" 

"  You  shall  learn  whom  you  are  addressing, 
M'sieu!" 

"I  am  dying  to  do  that,  M'sieu!" 

"  I  am  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro, 
M'sieu." 

Upon  this  title  Tartarin,  much  excited,  cleft 
the  throng  and  placed  himself  in  the  foremost 
rank,  proud  and  happy  to  find  his  prince  again, 
the  Montenegrin  noble  of  such  politeness  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  begun  on  board  of  the  mail 
steamer.  Unfortunately  the  title  of  Highness, 
which  had  so  dazzled  the  worthy  Tarasconian, 
did  not  produce  the  slightest  impression  upon 
the  Chasseurs  officer  with  whom  the  noble  had 
his  dispute. 

"I  am  much  the  wiser!"  observed  the  mili- 
tary gentleman  sneeringly;  and  turning  to  the 
bystanders,  he  added:  "'Prince  Gregory  of 
Montenegro' — who  knows  any  such  a  person? 
Nobody!" 

The  indignant  Tartarin  took  one  step  for- 
ward. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  129 

"Allow  me.  I  know  the  prance"  said  he,  in 
a  very  firm  voice,  and  with  his  finest  Tarascon- 
ian  accent. 

The  light  cavalry  officer  eyed  him  hard  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  re- 
turned: 

"Come,  that  is  good!  Just  you  two  share 
the  twenty  francs  lacking  between  you,  and  let 
us  talk  no  more  on  the  score." 

Whereupon  he  turned  his  back  upon  them 
and  mixed  with  the  crowd.  The  stormy  Tar- 
tarin was  going  to  rush  after  him,  but  the  prince 
prevented  that. 

"  Let  him  go.  I  can  manage  my  own  af- 
fairs." 

Taking  the  interventionist  by  the  arm,  he 
drew  him  rapidly  out  of  doors.  When  they 
\vore  upon  the  square,  Prince  Gregory  of  Mon- 
tenegro lifted  his  hat  off,  extended  his  hand  to 
our  hero,  and  as  he  but  dimly  remembered  his 
name,  he  began  in  a  vibrating  voice: 

"Monsieur  Barbarin " 

"Tartarin!"  prompted  the  other,  timidly. 


130  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  Tartarin,  Barbarin,  no  matter!  Between 
us  henceforward  it  is  a  league  of  life  and  death!" 

The  Montenegrin  noble  shook  his  hand  with 
fierce  energy.  You  may  infer  that  the  Taras- 
conian  was  proud. 

"Prance,  prance!"  he  repeated  enthusiasti- 
cally. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  subsequently  the  two 
gentlemen  were  installed  in  the  Platanes  Res- 
taurant, an  agreeable  late  supper-house,  with 
terraces  running  out  over  the  sea,  where,  before 
a  hearty  Russian  salad,  seconded  by  a  nice  Cres- 
cia  wine,  they  renewed  the  friendship. 

You  cannot  imagine  any  one  more  bewitching 
than  this  Montenegrin  prince.  Slender,  fine, 
with  crisp  hair  curled  by  the  tongs,  shaved  "  a 
week  under"  and  pumice-stoned  on  that,  be- 
starred  with  out-of-the-way  decorations,  he  had 
the  wily  eye,  the  fondling  gestures,  and  vaguely 
the  accent  of  an  Italian,  which  gave  him  an  air 
of  Cardinal  Mazarin  without  his  chin-tuft  and 
moustaches.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  Latin 
tongues,  and  lugged  in  quotations  from  Tacitus, 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  131 

Horace,  and  Caesar's  Commentaries  at  every 
opening. 

Of  an  old  noble  strain,  it  appeared  that  his 
brothers  had  had  him  exiled  at  the  age  of  ten, 
on  account  of  his  liberal  opinions,  since  which 
time  he  had  roamed  the  world  for  pleasure  and 
instruction  as  a  philosophical  noble.  A  singu- 
lar coincidence!  the  prince  had  spent  three 
years  in  Tarascon;  and  as  Tartarin  showed 
amazement  at  never  having  met  him  at  the  club 
or  on  the  esplanade,  His  Highness  evasively  re- 
marked that  he  never  went  about.  Through 
delicacy,  the  Tarasconian  did  not  dare  to  ques- 
tion further.  All  great  existences  have  such 
mysterious  nooks. 

To  sum  up,  this  Signer  Gregory  was  a  very 
genial  aristocrat.  Whilst  sipping  the  rosy  Cres- 
cia  juice  he  patiently  listened  to  Tartarin's  ex- 
patiating on  his  lovely  Moor,  and  he  even  prom- 
ised to  find  her  speedily,  as  he  had  full  knowl- 
edge of  the  native  ladies. 

They  drank  hard  and  lengthily  in  toasts  to 


132  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  The  ladies  of  Algiers  "  and  "  The  freedom  of 
Montenegro!" 

Outside,  upon  the  terrace,  heaved  the  sea,  and 
its  rollers  slapped  the  strand  in  the  darkness  with 
much  the  sound  of  wet  sails  flapping.  The  air 
was  warm,  and  the  sky  full  of  stars. 

In  the  plane-trees  a  nightingale  was  piping. 

It  was  Tartarin  who  paid  the  piper. 


CHAPTER    X. 
"TELL  ME  YOUR  FATHER'S  NAME,  AXD  i  WILL 

TELL  YOU  THE  NAME  OF  THAT  FLOWER." 

PRINCES  of  Montenegro  are  the  ones  to  find 
the  love-bird. 

On  the  morrow  early  after  this  evening  at  the 
Platanes,  Prince  Gregory  was  in  the  Tarascon- 
ian's  bedroom. 

"  Quick!  Dress  yourself  quickly!  Your 
Moorish  beauty  is  found.  Her  name  is  Baya. 
She's  scarce  twenty — as  petty  as  a  love,  and  al- 
ready a  widow." 

"A  widow!  What  a  slice  of  luck!"  joyfully 
exclaimed  Tartarin,  who  dreaded  Oriental  hus- 
bands. 

"Ay,  but  woefully  closely  guarded  by  her 
brother." 

"  Oh,  the  mischief!" 

"A  savage  chap  who  vends  pipes  in  the  Or- 
leans bazaar." 

133 


134  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Here  fell  a  silence. 

"A  fig  for  that!"  proceeded  the  prince;  "you 
are  not  the  man  to  be  daunted  by  such  a  trifle; 
and,  anyhow,  this  old  corsair  can  be  pacified,  I 
daresay,  by  having  some  pipes  bought  of  him. 
But  be  quick!  On  with  your  courting  suit,  you 
lucky  dog!" 

Pale  and  agitated,  with  his  heart  brimming 
over  with  love,  the  Tarasconian  leaped  out  of 
his  couch,  and,  as  he  hastily  buttoned  up  his 
capacious  nether  garment,  wanted  to  know  how 
he  should  act. 

"  Write  straightway  to  the  lady  and  ask  for  a 
tryst." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  she  knows  French  ?" 
•queried  the  Tarasconian  simpleton,  with  the  dis- 
appointed mien  of  one  who  had  believed  thor- 
oughly in  the  Orient. 

"  Not  one  word  of  it,"  rejoined  the  prince 
imperturbably;  "  but  you  can  dictate  the  billet- 
doux,  and  I  will  translate  it  bit  by  bit." 

"  0  prince,  how  kind  you  are!" 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  135 

The  lover  began  striding  up  and  down  the 
bedroom  in  silent  meditation. 

Naturally  a  man  does  not  write  to  a  Moorish 
girl  in  Algiers  in  the  same  way  as  to  a  seam- 
stress of  Beaucaire.  It  was  a  very  lucky  thing 
that  our  hero  had  in  mind  his  numerous  read- 
ings, which  allowed  him,  by  amalgamating  the 
Red  Indian  eloquence  of  Gustave  Aimard's 
Apaches  with  Lamartine's  rhetorical  flourishes 
in  the  "  Voyage  en  Orient,"  and  some  remini- 
scences of  the  "  Song  of  Songs,"  to  compose  the 
most  Eastern  letter  that  you  could  expect  to  see. 
It  opened  with : 

"Like  unto  the  ostrich  upon  the  sandy  waste" — 
and  concluded  by: 

"Tell  me  your  father's  name,  and  I  will  tett 
you  the  name  of  that  flower." 

To  this  missive  the  romantic  Tartarin  would 
have  much  liked  to  join  an  emblematic  bouquet 
of  flowers  in  the  Eastern  fashion;  but  Prince 
Gregory  thought  it  better  to  purchase  some 


136  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

pipes  at  the  brother's,  which  could  not  fail  to 
soften  his  wild  temper,  and  would  certainly 
please  the  lady  a  very  great  deal,  as  she  was 
much  of  a  smoker. 

"  Let's  be  off  at  once  to  buy  them!"  said  Tar- 
tarin, full  of  ardor. 

"  No,  no!  Let  me  go  alone.  I  can  get  them 
cheaper." 

"  Eh,  what?  Would  you  save  me  the  trouble? 
O  prince,  prince,  you  do  me  proud!" 

Quite  abashed,  the  good-hearted  fellow  of- 
fered his  purse  to  the  obliging  Montenegrin, 
urging  him  to  overlook  nothing  by  which  the 
lady  would  be  gratified. 

Unfortunately  the  suit,  albeit  capitally  com- 
menced, did  not  progress  as  rapidly  as  might 
have  been  anticipated.  It  appeared  that  the 
Moorish  beauty  was  very  deeply  affected  by  Tar- 
tarin's  eloquence,  and,  for  that  matter,  three- 
parts  won  beforehand,  so  that  she  wished  noth- 
ing better  than  to  receive  him;  but  that  brother 
of  hers  had  qualms,  and  to  lull  them  it  was 
necessary  to  buy  pipes  by  the  dozens;  nay  the 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  137 

gross — well,  we  had  best  say  by  the  shipload  at 
once. 

"  What  the  plague  can  Baya  do  with  all  these 
pipes?"  poor  Tartaiin  wanted  to  know  more 
than  once;  but  he  paid  the  bills  all  the  same, 
and  without  niggardliness. 

At  length,  after  having  purchased  a  moun- 
tainous stack  of  pipes  and  poured  forth  lakes  of 
Oriental  poesy,  an  interview  was  arranged. 

I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  with  what  throb- 
bings  of  the  heart  the  Tarasconian  prepared 
himself;  with  what  carefulness  he  trimmed, 
brilliantined,  and  perfumed  his  rough  cap-pop- 
per's beard,  and  how  he  did  not  forget — for 
everything  must  be  thought  of — to  slip  a  spiky 
life-preserver  and  two  or  three  six-shooters  into 
his  pockets. 

The  ever-obliging  prince  was  coming  to  this 
first  meeting  in  the  office  of  interpreter. 

The  lady  dwelt  in  the  upper  part  of  the  town. 
Before  her  doorway  a  boy  Moor  of  fourteen  or 
less  was  smoking  cigarettes;  this  was  the  brother 
in  question,  the  celebrated  Ali.  On  seeing  the 


138  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

pair  of  visitors  arrive,  he  gave  a  double  knock 
on  the  postern  gate  and  delicately  glided  away. 

The  door  opened.  A  negress  appeared,  who 
conducted  the  gentlemen,  without  uttering  a 
word,  across  the  narrow  inner  courtyard  into 
a  small  cool  room,  where  the  lady  awaited 
them,  reclining  on  a  low  ottoman.  At  first 
glance  she  appeared  smaller  and  stouter  than 
the  Moorish  damsel  met  in  the  omnibus  by  the 
Tarasconian.  In  fact,  was  it  really  the  same? 
But  the  doubt  merely  flashed  through  Tartarin's 
brain  like  a  stroke  of  lightning. 

The  dame  was  so  pretty  thus,  with  her  feet 
bare,  and  plump  fingers,  fine  and  pink,  loaded 
with  rings.  Under  her  bodice  of  gilded  cloth 
and  the  folds  of  her  flower-patterned  dress  was 
suggested  a  loveable  creature,  rather  blessed 
materially,  rounded  everywhere  and  nice 
enough  to  eat.  The  amber  mouthpiece  of  a 
narghikh  smoked  at  her  lips,  and  enveloped  her 
wholly  in  a  halo  of  light-colored  smoke. 

On  entering,  the  Tarasconian  laid  a  hand  on 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  139X 

his  heart  and  bowed  as  Moorlike  as  possible, 
whilst  rolling  his  large  impassioned  eyes. 

Baya  gazed  on  him  for  a  moment  without 
making  an  answer;  but  then,  dropping  her  pipe- 
stem,  she  threw  her  head  back,  hid  it  in  her 
hands,  and  they  could  only  see  her  white  neck 
rippling  with  a  wild  laugh  like  a  bag  full  of 
pearls. 


CHAPTER   XL 
SIDI  TART'RI  BEN  TART'RI. 

SHOULD  you  ever  drop  into  the  coffee-houses 
of  the  Algerian  upper  town  after  dark,  even  at 
this  day,  you  would  still  hear  the  natives  chat- 
ting among  themselves,  with  many  a  wink  and 
slight  laugh,  of  one  Sidi  Tart'ri  Ben  Tart'ri,  a 
rich  and  good-humored  European,  who  dwelt,  a 
few  years  back,  in  that  neighborhood,  with  a 
buxom  witch  of  local  origin,  named  Baya. 

This  Sidi  Tart'ri,  who  has  left  such  a  merry 
memory  around  the  Kasbah,  is  no  other  than 
our  Tartarin,  as  will  be  guessed. 

How  could  you  expect  things  otherwise?  In 
the  lives  of  heroes,  of  saints,  too,  it  happens  the 
same  way — there  are  moments  of  blindness,  per- 
turbation, and  weakness.  The  illustrious 
Tarasconian  was  no  more  exempt  from  this  than 
another,  and  that  is  the  reason  during  two 
months  that,  oblivious  of  fame  and  lions,  he 

140 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  141 

revelled  in  Oriental  amorousness,  and  dozed, 
like  Hannibal  at  Capua,  in  the  delights  of  Al- 
giers the  White. 

The  good  fellow  took  a  pretty  little  house 
in  the  native  style  in  the  heart  of  the  Arab 
town,  with  inner  courtyard,  banana-trees,  cool 
verandas,  and  fountains.  He  dwelt,  afar  from 
noise  in  company  with  the  Moorish  charmer,  a 
thorough  woman  to  the  manner  born,  who 
pulled  at  her  hubble-bubble  all  day  when  she 
was  not  eating. 

Stretched  out  on  a  divan  in  front  of  him, 
Baya  would  drone  him  monotonous  tunes  with 
a  guitar  in  her  fist;  or  else,  to  distract  her  lord 
and  master,  favor  him  with  the  Bee  Dance,  hold- 
ing a  hand-glass  up,  in  which  she  reflected  her 
white  teeth  and  the  faces  she  made. 

As  the  Esmeralda  did  not  know  a  word  of 
French,  and  Tartarin  none  in  Arabic,  the  con- 
versation died  away  sometimes,  and  the  Taras- 
conian  had  plenty  of  leisure  to  do  penance  for 
the  gush  of  language  of  which  he  had  been 


142  Tartari n  of  Tnrascon. 

guilty  in  the  shop  of  Bezuquet  the  chemist  or 
that  of  Costecalde  the  gunmaker. 

But  this  penance  was  not  devoid  of  charm, 
for  he  felt  a  kind  of  enjoyable  sullenness  in 
dawdling  away  the  whole  day  without  speaking, 
and  in  listening  to  the  gurgling  of  the  hookah, 
the  strumming  of  the  guitar,  and  the  faint 
splashing  of  the  fountain  on  the  mosaic  pave- 
ment of  the  yard. 

The  pipe,  the  hath,  and  caresses  filled  his  en- 
tire life.  They  seldom  went  out  of  doors. 
Sometimes,  with  his  lady-love  upon  a  pillion, 
Sidi  Tart'ri  would  ride  upon  a  sturdy  mule  to 
eat  pomegranates  in  a  little  garden  he  had  pur- 
chased in  the  suburbs.  But  never,  without  ex- 
ception, did  he  go  down  into  the  European 
quarter.  This  kind  of  Algiers  appeared  to  him 
as  ugly  and  unbearable  as  a  barracks  at  home, 
with  its  Zouaves  in  revelry,  its  music-halls 
crammed  with  officers,  and  its  everlasting  clank 
of  metal  sabre-sheaths  under  the  arcades. 

The  sum  total  is,  that  our  Tarasconian  was 
very  happy. 


Tartar! n  of  Tarascon.  143 

Sancho-Tartarin  particularly,  being  very 
sweet  upon  Turkish  pastry,  declared  that  one 
could  not  be  more  satisfied  than  by  this  new 
existence.  Quixote-Tartarin  had  some  twinges 
at  whiles  on  thinking  of  Tarascon  and  the  prom- 
ises of  lion-skins;  but  this  remorse  did  not  last, 
and  to  drive  away  such  dampening  ideas  there 
sufficed  one  glance  from  Baya,  or  a  spoonful  of 
those  diabolical  dizzying  and  odoriferous  sweet- 
meats like  Circe's  brews. 

In  the  evening  Gregory  came  to  discourse  a 
little  about  a  free  Black  Mountain.  Of  inde- 
fatigable obligingness,  this  amiable  nobleman 
filled  the  functions  of  an  interpreter  in  the 
household,  or  those  of  a  steward  at  a  pinch,  and 
all  for  nothing — for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  it. 
Apart  from  him,  Tartarin  received  none  but 
"Turks."  All  those  fierce-headed  pirates  who 
had  given  him  such  frights  from  the  backs  of 
their  black  stalls  turned  out,  when  once  he 
made  their  acquaintance,  to  be  good  inoffensive 
tradesmen,  embroiderers,  dealers  in  spice,  pipe- 
mouthpiece  turners — well-bred  fellows,  humble, 


144  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

clever,  close,  and  first-class  hands  at  homely 
card  games.  Four  or  five  times  a  week  these 
gentry  would  come  and  spend  the  evening  at 
Sidi  Tart'ri's,  winning  his  small  change,  eating 
his  cates  and  dainties,  and  delicately  retiring  on 
the  stroke  of  ten  with  thanks  to  the  Prophet. 

Left  alone,  Sidi  Tart'ri  and  his  faithful 
spouse  by  the  broomstick  wedding  would  finish 
the  evening  on  their  terrace,  a  broad  white 
roof  which  overlooked  the  city. 

All  around  them  a  thousand  of  other  such 
white  flats,  placid  beneath  the  moonshine,  were 
descending  like  steps  to  the  sea.  The  breeze 
carried  up  tinkling  of  guitars. 

Suddenly,  like  a  shower  of  firework  stars,  a 
full,  clear  melody  would  be  softly  sprinkled  out 
from  the  sky,  and  on  the  minaret  of  the  neigh- 
boring mosque  a  handsome  muezzin  would  ap- 
pear, his  blanched  form  outlined  on  the  deep 
blue  of  the  night,  as  he  chanted  the  glory  of 
Allah  with  a  marvelous  voice,  which  filled  the 
horizon. 

Thereupon   Baya  would  let  go  her  guitar,. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  145 

and  with  her  large  eyes  turned  towards  the  crier, 
seem  to  imbibe  the  prayer  deliciously.  As  long 
as  the  chant  endured  she  would  remain  thrilled 
there  in  ecstasy,  like  an  Oriental  saint.  The 
deeply  impressed  Tartarin  would  watch  her 
pray,  and  conclude  that  it  must  be  a  splendid 
and  powerful  creed  that  could  cause  such  fren- 
zies of  faith. 

Tarascon,  veil  thy  face!  here  is  a  son  of  thine 
on  the  point  of  becoming  a  renegade! 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   LATEST   INTELLIGENCE    FROM   TARASCOX. 

PARTING  from  his  little  country  seat,  Sidi 
Tart'ri  was  returning  alone  on  his  mule  on  a 
fine  afternoon,  when  the  sky  was  blue  and  the 
zephyrs  warm.  His  legs  were  kept  wide  apart 
by  ample  saddle-bags  of  esparto  cloth,  swelled 
out  with  cedrats  and  water-melons.  Lulled  bjr 
the  ring  of  his  large  stirrups,  and  rocking  his 
body  to  the  swing  and  swaying  of  the  beast,  the 
good  fellow  was  thus  traversing  an  adorable 
country,  with  his  hands  folded  on  his  paunch, 
three-quarters  gone,  through  heat,  in  a  com- 
•  fortable  doze.  All  at  once,  on  entering  the 
town  a  deafening  appeal  aroused  him. 

"Ahoy!  What  a  monster  Fate  is!  Any- 
body'd  take  this  for  Monsieur  Tartarin." 

On  this  name,  and  at  the  jolly  southern  ac- 
cent, the  Tarasconian  lifted  his  head,  and  per- 

146 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  147 

ceived  a  couple  of  steps  away,  the  honest  tanned 
visage  of  Captain  Barbassou,  master  of  the 
Zouave,  who  was  taking  his  absinthe  at  the  door 
of  a  little  coffee-house. 

"  Hey!  Lord  love  you,  Barbassou!"  said  Tar- 
tarin, pulling  up  his  mule. 

Instead  of  continuing  the  dialogue,  Barbas- 
sou stared  at  him  for  a  space  ere  he  burst  into 
a  peal  of  such  hilarity  that  Sidi  Tart'ri  sat  back 
dumbfounded  on  his  melons. 

"  What  a  stunning  turban,  my  poor  Monsieur 
Tartarin!  Is  it  true,  what  they  say  of  your  hav- 
ing turned  Turk?  How  is  little  Baya?  Is  she 
still  singing  '  Marco  la  Bella '?" 

"Marco  la  Bella!"  repeated  the  indignant 
Tartarin.  "  I'll  have  you  to  know,  captain,  that 
the  person  you  mention  is  an  honorable  Moor- 
ish lady,  and  one  who  does  not  know  a  word  of 
French/' 

"Baya  does  not  know  French!  What  luna- 
tic asylum  do  you  hail  from,  then?" 

The  good  captain  broke  into  still  heartier 
laughter;  but,  seeing  the  chops  of  poor  Sidi 
Tart'ri  fall,  he  changed  his  course. 


148  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"  Howsoever,  may  happen  it  is  not  the  same 
lass.  Let's  reckon  that  I  have  mixed  'em  up. 
Still,  mark  you,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  you  will  do 
well,  nonetheless,  to  distrust  Algerian  Moors 
and  Montenegrin  princes." 

Tartarin  rose  in  the  stirrups,  making  a  wry 
face. 

"  The  prince  is  my  friend,  captain." 
"  Come,  come,  don't  wax  wrathy.  Won't  you 
have  some  bitters  to  sweeten  you?  No? 
Haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  the  folks  at 
home,  neither?  Well,  then,  a  pleasant  journey. 
By  the  way,  mate,  I  have  some  good  French 
'bacco  upon  me  and  if  you  would  like  to  carry 
away  a  few  pipefuls,  you  have  only  to  take  some. 
Take  it,  won't  you?  It's  your  beastly  Oriental 
'baccoes  that  have  befogged  your  brain." 

Upon  this  the  captain  went  back  to  his  ab- 
sinthe, whilst  the  moody  Tartarin  trotted  slowly 
on  the  road  to  his  little  house.  Although  his 
great  soul  refused  to  credit  anything,  Barbas- 
sou's  insinuations  had  vexed  him,  and  the  famil- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  149 

iar  adjurations  and  home  accent  had  awakened 
vague  remorse. 

He  found  nobody  at  home,  Baya  having  gone 
out  to  the  bath.  The  negress  appeared  sinister 
and  the  dwelling  saddening.  A  prey  to  inex- 
pressible melancholy,  he  went  and  sat  down  by 
the  fountain  to  load  a  pipe  with  Barbassou's  to- 
bacco. It  was  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  the 
Marseilles  Semaphore  newspaper.  On  flatten- 
ing it  out,  the  name  of  his  native  place  struck 
his  eyes. 

"  Our  Tarascon  correspondent  writes: — 
'•'  The  city  is  in  distress.  There  has  been  no  news  for 
several  months  from  Tartarin,  the  lion-slayer,  who  set 
off  to  hunt  the  great  feline  tribe  in  Africa.  What  can 
have  become  of  our  heroic  fellow-countryman?  Those 
hardly  dare  ask  who  know,  as  we  do,  how  hot-headed 
he  was,  and  what  boldness  and  thirst  for  adventures 
Mere  his.  Has  he,  like  many  others,  been  smothered 
in  the  sands,  or  has  he  fallen  under  the  murderous 
fangs  of  one  of  those  monsters  of  the  Atlas  Range  of 
which  he  had  promised  the  skins  to  the  municipality? 
What  a  dreadful  state  of  uncertainty!  It  is  true  some 
negro  traders,  come  to  Beaucaire  Fair,  assert  having 


150  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

met  in  the  middle  of  the  deserts  a  European  whose 
description  agreed  with  his;  he  was  proceeding  towards 
Timbuctoo.  May  Heaven  preserve  our  Tartarin!" 

When  he  read  this,  the  son  of  Tarascon  red- 
dened, blanched,  and  shuddered.  All  Taras- 
con appeared  unto  him:  the  club,  the  cap-pop- 
pers, Costecalde's  green  arm-chair,  and,  hover- 
ing over  all  like  a  spread  eagle,  the  imposing 
moustaches  of  brave  Commandant  Bravida. 

At  seeing  himself  here,  as  he  was,  cowardly 
lolling  on  a  mat,  whilst  his  friends  believed  him 
slaughtering  wild  beasts,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  could  have  wept 
had  he  not  been  a  hero. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  up  and  thundered: 

"The  lion,  the  lion!     Down  with  him!" 

And  dashing  into  the  dusty  lumber-hole 
where  mouldered  the  shelter-tent,  the  medicine- 
chest,  the  potted  meats,  and  the  gun-cases,  he 
dragged  them  out  into  the  middle  of  the  court. 

Sancho-Tartarin  was  no  more:  Quixote-Tar- 
tarin  occupied  the  field  of  active  life. 

Only  the  time  to  inspect  his  armament  and 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  151 

stores,  don  his  harness,  get  into  his  heavy  boot?, 
scribble  a  couple  of  words  to  confide  Baya  to  the 
prince,  and  slip  a  few  bank-notes  sprinkled  with 
tears  into  the  envelope,  and  then  the  dauntless 
Tarasconian  rolled  away  in  the  stage-coach  on 
the  Blidah  road,  leaving  the  house  to  the  ne- 
gress,  stupor-stricken  before  the  pipe,  the  tur- 
ban, and  babooshes — all  the  Moslem  shell  of 
Sidi  Tart'ri  which  sprawled  piteously  under  the 
little  white  trefoils  of  the  gallery. 


EPISODE  THE  THIRD 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHAT  BECOMES  OF  THE   OLD  STAGE-COACHES. 

COME  to  look  closely  at  the  vehicle,  it  was  an 
old  stage-coach,  all  of  the  olden  time,  uphol- 
stered in  faded  deep  blue  cloth,  with  those  enor- 
mous rough  woolen  balls  which,  after  a  few 
hours'  journey,  finally  establish  a  raw  spot  in 
the  small  of  your  back. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  a  corner  of  the  in- 
side, where  he  installed  himself  most  free-and- 
easily;  and,  preliminarily  to  inspiring  the  rank 
emanations  of  the  great  African  felines,  the  hero 
had  to  content  himself  with  that  homely  old 
odor  of  the  stage-coach,  oddly  composed  of  a 
thousand  smells,  of  man  and  woman,  horses  and 
harness,  eatables  and  mildewed  straw. 

There  was  a  little  of  everything  inside — a 
Trappist  monk,  some  Jew  merchants,  two  fast 
ladies  going  to  join  their  regiment,  the  Third 

155 


15G  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Hussars,  a  photographic  artist  from  Orleans- 
ville,  and  so  on.  But,  however  charming  and 
varied  was  the  company,  the  Tarasconian  was 
not  in  the  mood  for  chatting;  he  remained  quite 
thoughtful,  with  an  arm  in  the  arm-rest  sling- 
strap  and  his  guns  between  his  knees.  All 
churned  up  his  wits — the  precipitate  departure, 
Baya's  eyes  of  jet,  the  terrible  chase  he  was 
about  to  undertake,  to  say  nothing  of  this  Euro- 
pean coach,  with  its  Noah's  Ark  aspect,  redis- 
covered in  the  heart  of  Africa,  vaguely  recalling 
the  Tarascon  of  his  youth,  with  its  races  in  the 
suburbs,  jolly  dinners  on  the  river-side  —  a 
throng  of  memories,  in  short. 

Gradually  night  came  on.  The  guard  lit  up 
the  lamps.  The  rusty  diligence  danced  creak- 
ingly  on  its  old  springs;  the  horses  trotted  and 
their  bells  jangled.  From  time  to  time  in  the 
boot  arose  a  dreadful  clank  of  iron:  that  was 
the  war  material. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  nearly  overcome,  dwelt 
a  moment  scanning  the  fellow-passengers,  com- 
ically shaken  by  the  jolts,  and  dancing  before 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  157 

him  like  the  shadows  in  galanty-shows,  till  his 
eyes  grew  cloudy  and  his  mind  befogged,  and 
only  vaguely  he  heard  the  wheels  grind  and 
the  sides  of  the  conveyance  squeak  complain- 
ingly. 

Suddenly  a  voice  called  Tartarin  by  his  name, 
the  voice  of  an  old  fair}'  godmother,  hoarse, 
broken  and  cracked. 

"Monsieur  Tartarin!"  three  times. 

"Who's  calling  me?" 

"  It's  I,  Monsieur  Tartarin.  Don't  you  rec- 
ognize me?  I  am  the  old  stage-coach  who 
used  to  do  the  road  betwixt  Nimes  and  Taras- 
con twenty  year  agone.  How  many  times  I  have 
carried  jou  and  your  friends  when  you  went 
to  shoot  at  caps  over  Joncquieres  or  Bellegarde 
way!  I  did  not  know  you  again  at  the  first, 
on  account  of  your  Turk's  cap  and  the  flesh  you 
have  accumulated;  but  as  soon  as  you  began 
snoring  —  what  a  rascal  is  good-luck  !  —  I 
twigged  you  straight  away." 

"All  right,  that's  all  right  enough!"  ob- 
served the  Tarasconian,  a  shade  vexed  ;  but 


158  Tartarin  of  Taraseon. 

softening,  he  added,  "  But  to  the  point,  my 
poor  old  girl;  whatever  did  you  come  out  here 
for?  " 

"  Pooh!  my  good  Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  assure 
you  I  never  came  out  of  my  own  free  will.  As 
soon  as  the  Beaucaire  railway  was  finished  I 
was  considered  good  for  nought,  and  shipped 
away  into  Algeria.  And  I  am  not  the  only  one 
either!  Bless  you,  next  to  all  the  old  stage- 
coaches of  France  have  been  packed  off  like  me. 
We  were  regarded  as  too  much  the  conservative 
— '  the  slow  coaches ' — d'ye  see,  and  now  we  are 
here  leading  the  life  of  a  dog.  This  is  what 
you  in  France  call  the  Algerian  railways." 

Here  the  ancient  vehicle  heaved  a  long-drawn 
sigh  before  proceeding. 

"My  wheels  and  linchpin!  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin, how  I  regret  my  lovely  Taraseon!  That 
was  the  good  time  for  me,  when  I  was  young! 
You  ought  to  have  seen  me  starting  off  in  the 
morning,  washed  with  no  stint  of  water  and  all 
a-shine,  with  my  wheels  freshly  varnished,  my 
lamps  blazing  like  a  brace  of  suns,  and  my  boot 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  159 

always  rubbed  up  with  oil  !  It  was  indeed 
lovely  when  the  postillion  cracked  his  whip  to 
the  tune  of  '  Lagadigadeou,  the  Tarasque!  the 
Tarasque! '  and  the  guard,  his  horn  in  its  sling 
and  laced  cap  cocked  well  over  one  ear,  chuck- 
ing his  little  dog,  always  in  a  fury,  upon  the 
top,  climbed  up  himself  with  a  shout:  'Right — 
away! ' 

"  Then  would  my  four  horses  dash  off  to  the 
medley  of  bells,  barks,  and  horn-blasts,  and  the 
windows  fly  open  for  all  Tarascon  to  look  with 
pride  upon  the  royal  mail  coach  dart  over  the 
king's  highway. 

"  What  a  splendid  road  that  was,  Monsieur 
Tartarin,  broad  and  well  kept,  with  its  mile- 
stones, its  little  heaps  of  road-metal  at  regular 
distances,  and  its  pretty  clumps  of  vines  and 
olive-trees  on  either  hand  !  Then,  again,  the 
roadside  inns  so  close  together,  and  the  changes 
of  horses  every  five  minutes!  And  what  jolly, 
honest  chaps  my  patrons  were! — village  mayors 
and  parish  priests  going  up  to  Nimes  to  see 
their  prefect  or  bishop,  taffety-weavers  return- 


160  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

ing  openly  from  the  Mazet,  collegians  out  on 
holiday  leave,  peasants  in  worked  smock-frocks, 
all  fresh  shaven  for  the  occasion  that  morning; 
and  up  ahove,  on  the  top,  you  gentlemen- 
sportsmen,  always  in  high  spirits,  and  singing 
each  your  own  family  ballad  to  the  stars  as  you 
came  back  in  the  dark. 

"  Deary  me  !  it's  a  change  of  times  now  ! 
Lord  knows  what  rubbish  I  am  carting  here, 
come  from  nobody  guesses  where!  They  fill 
me  with  small  deer,  these  negroes,  Bedouin 
Arabs,  swashbucklers,  adventurers  from  every 
land,  and  ragged  settlers  who  poison  me  with 
their  pipes,  and  all  jabbering  a  language  that 
the  Tower  of  Babel  itself  could  make  nothing  of! 
And,  furthermore,  you  should  see  how  they 
treat  me — I  mean,  how  they  never  treat  me: 
never  a  brush  or  a  wash.  They  begrudge  me 
grease  for  my  axles.  Instead  of  my  good,  fat, 
quiet  horses  of  other  days,  little  Arab  ponies, 
with  the  devil  i»  their  frames,  who  fight  and 
bite,  caper  as  they  run  like  so  many  goats,  and 
break  my  splatterboard  all  to  smithereens  with 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  161 

their  lashing  out  behind.  Ouch!  ouch!  there 
they  are  at  it  again! 

"And  such  roads!  Just  here  it  is  bearable, 
because  we  are  near  the  governmental  head- 
quarters; but  out  a  bit  there's  nothing,  Mon- 
sieur— not  the  ghost  of  a  road  at  all.  We  get 
along  as  best  we  can  over  hill  and  dale,  over 
dwarf  palms  and  mastic-trees.  Ne'er  a  fixed 
change  of  horses,  the  stopping  being  at  the 
whim  of  the  guard,  now  at  one  farm,  again  at 
another. 

"  Somewhiles  this  rogue  goes  a  couple  of 
leagues  out  of  the  way  to  have  a  glass  of  ab- 
sinthe or  champoreau  with  a  chum.  After 
which,  'Crack  on,  postillion!'  to  make  up  for 
the  lost  time.  Though  the  sun  be  broiling  and 
the  dust  scorching,  we  whip  on!  We  catch  in 
the  scrub  and  spill  over,  but  whip  on!  We 
swim  rivers,  we  catch  cold,  we  get  swamped,  we 
drown,  but  whip!  whip!  whip!  Then  in  the 
evening,  streaming — a  nice  thing  for  my  age, 
with  my  rheumatics — I  have  to  sleep  in  the 
open  air  of  some  caravanserai  yard,  open  to  all 


162  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

the  winds.  In  the  dead  o'  night  jackals  and 
hyaenas  come  sniffing  of  my  body;  and  the 
marauders  who  don't  like  dews  get  into  my 
compartment  to  keep  warm. 

"  Such  is  the  life  I  lead,  my  poor  Monsieur 
Tartarin,  and  that  I  shall  lead  to  the  day  when 
— burnt  up  by  the  sun  and  rotted  by  the  damp 
nights  until  unable  to  do  anything  else — I  shall 
fall  in  some  spot  of  bad  road,  where  the  Arabs 
will  boil  their  Tfouskous  with  the  bones  of  my 
old  carcass" — 

"Blidah!  Blidah!"  called  out  the  guard  as 
he  opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  LITTLE  GENTLEMAN  DROPS  IN  AND  "  DROPS 
UPON"  "    TARTARIN. 

VAGUELY  through  the  mud-dimmed  glass 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
second-rate  but  pretty  town  market-place,  reg- 
ular in  shape,  surrounded  by  colonnades  and 
planted  with  orange-trees,  in  the  midst  of 
which  what  seemed-  toy  leaden  soldiers  were 
going  through  the  morning  exercise  in  the  clear 
roseate  mist.  The  cafes  were  shedding  their 
shutters.  In  one  corner  there  was  a  vegetable 
market.  It  was  bewitching,  but  it  did  not 
smack  of  lions  yet. 

"To  the  South!  farther  to  the  South! "  mut- 
tered the  good  old  desperado,  sinking  back  in 
his  corner. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened.  A  puff  of 
fresh  air  rushed  in,  bearing  upon  its  wings,  in 

163 


164  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

the  perfume  of  the  orange  blossoms,  a  little 
person  in  a  brown  frock-coat,  old  and  dry, 
wrinkled  and  formal,  his  face  no  bigger  than 
your  fist,  his  neckcloth  of  black  silk  five  fingers 
wide,  a  notary's  letter-case,  and  umbrella — the 
very  picture  of  a  village  solicitor. 

On  perceiving  the  Tarasconian's  warlike 
equipment,  the  little  gentleman,  who  was  seated 
over  against  him,  appeared  excessively  sur- 
prised, and  set  to  studying  him  with  burden- 
some persistency. 

The  horses  were  taken  out  and  the  fresh  ones 
put  in,  whereupon  the  coach  started  off  again. 
The  little  weasel  still  gazed  at  Tartarin,  who 
in  the  end  took  snuff  at  it. 

"Does  this  astonish  you?"  he  demanded, 
staring  the  little  gentleman  full  in  the  face  in 
his  turn. 

"  Oh,  dear  no!  it  only  annoys  me,"  responded 
the  other,  very  tranquilly. 

And  the  fact  is,  that,  with  his  shelter-tent,  re- 
volvers, pair  of  guns  in  their  cases,  and  hunt- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  165 

ing-knife,  not  to  speak  of  his  natural  corpulence, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  did  take  up  a  lot  of  room. 

The  little  gentleman's  reply  angered  him. 

"  Do  you  by  any  chance  fancy  that  I  am 
going  lion-hunting  with  your  umbrella  ?" 
queried  the  great  man  haughtily. 

The  little  man  looked  at  his  umbrella,  smiled 
blandly,  and  still  with  the  same  lack  of  emo- 
tion, inquired: 

"  Oho,  then  you  are  Monsieur" 

"  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  lion-killer!  " 

In  uttering  these  words  the  dauntless  son  of 
Tarascon  shook  the  blue  tassel  of  his  fez  like 
a  mane. 

Through  the  vehicle  was  a  spell  of  stupefac- 
tion. 

The  Trappist  brother  crossed  himself,  the 
dubious  women  uttered  little  screams  of 
affright,  and  the  Orleansville  photographer 
bent  over  towards  the  lion-slayer,  already 
cherishing  the  unequaled  honor  of  taking  his 
likeness. 

The  little  gentleman,  though,  was  not  awed. 


166  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  killed 
many  lions,  Monsieur  Tartarin?"  he  asked, 
very  quietly. 

The  Tarasconian  received  his  charge  in  the 
handsomest  manner. 

"  Is  it  many  have  I  killed,  Monsieur?  I 
wish  you  had  only  as  many  hairs  on  your  head 
as  I  have  killed  of  them." 

All  the  coach  laughed  on  observing  three 
yellow  bristles  standing  up  on  the  little  gentle- 
man's skull. 

In  his  turn  the  OrleansviHe  photographer 
struck  in: 

"Yours  must  be  a  terrible  profession,  Mon- 
sieur Tartarin.  You  must  pass  some  ugly 
moments  sometimes.  I  have  heard  that  poor 
Monsieur  Bombonnel " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  panther-killer,"  said  Tartarin, 
rather  disdainfully. 

"Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  with 
him?"  inquired  the  insignificant  person. 

"Eh!   of  course!     Know   him?     Why,  we 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  167 

have  been  out  on  the  hunt  over  twenty  times  to- 
gether." 

The  little  gentleman  smiled. 

"  So  you  also  hunt  panthers,  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin? "  he  asked. 

"  Sometimes,  just  for  pastime,"  said  the  fiery 
Tarasconian.  "  But,"  he  added,  as  he  tossed 
his  head  with  a  heroic  movement  that  inflamed 
the  hearts  of  the  two  sweethearts  of  the  regi- 
ment, "  that's  not  worth  lion-hunting." 

"  When  all's  said  and  done,"  ventured  the 
photographer,  "  a  panther  is  nothing  but  a  big 
cat." 

"  Right  you  are! "  said  Tartarin,  not  sorry  to 
abate  the  celebrated  BombonnePs  glory  a  little, 
particularly  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 

Here  the  coach  stopped.  The  conductor 
came  to  open  the  door,  and  addressed  the  in- 
significant little  gentleman  most  respectfully, 
saying: 

"  We  have  arrived,  Monsieur." 

The  little  gentleman  got  up,  stepped  out,  and 
said,  before  the  door  was  closed  again: 


168  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  give  you  a  bit  of 
advice  Monsieur  Tartarin?" 

"  What  is  it,  Monsieur?  " 

"  Faith!  you  wear  the  look  of  a  good  sort  of 
follow,  so  I  would,  rather  than  not,  let  you  have 
it.  Get  you  back  quickly  to  Tarascon,  Monsieur 
Tartarin,  for  you  are  wasting  your  time  here. 
There  do  remain  a  few  panthers  in  the  colony, 
but  out  upon  the  big  cats!  they  are  too  small 
game  for  you.  As  for  lion-hunting,  that's  all 
over.  There  are  none  left  in  Algeria,  my  friend 
Chassaing  having  lately  knocked  over  the  last," 

Upon  which  the  little  gentleman  saluted 
closed  the  door,  and  trotted  away  chuckling, 
with  his  document-wallet  and  umbrella. 

"  Guard,"  asked  Tartarin,  screwing  up  his 
face  contemptuously,  "  who  under  the  sun  is 
that  poor  little  mannikin?" 

"What!  don't  you  know  him?  Why,  that 
there's  Monsieur  Bombonnel  ! " 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  MONASTERY  OF  LIONS. 

AT  Milianah,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  alighted, 
leaving  the  stage-coach  to  continue  its  way 
towards  the  South. 

Two  days'  rough  journey,  two  nights  spent 
with  eyes  open  to  spy  out  of  window  if  there 
were  not  discoverable  the  dread  figure  of  a  lion 
in  the  fields  beyond  the  road — so  much  sleep- 
lessness well  deserved  some  hours'  repose.  Be- 
sides, if  we  must  tell  everything,  since  his 
misadventure  with  Bombonnel,  the  outspoken 
Tartarin  felt  ill  at  ease,  notwithstanding  his 
weapons,  his  terrifying  visage,  and  his  red  cap, 
before  the  Orleansville  photographer  and  the 
two  ladies  fond  of  the  military. 

So  he  proceeded  through  the  broad  streets  of 
Milianah,  full  of  fine  trees  and  fountains;  but 
whilst  looking  up  a  suitable  hotel,  the  poor  fel- 

169 


170  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

low  could  not  help  musing  over  Bombonnel's 
words.  Suppose  they  were  true  !  Suppose 
there  were  no  more  lions  in  Algeria!  What 
would  be  the  good,  then,  of  so  much  running 
about  and  fatigue? 

Suddenly,  at  the  turn  of  a  street,  our  hero 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  —  with  what  ? 
Guess!  "A  donkey,  of  course!"  A  donkey? 
A  splendid  lion  this  time,  waiting  before  a 
coffee-house  door,  royally  sitting  up  on  his 
hind-quarters,  with  his  tawny  mane  gleaming 
in  the  sun. 

"What  possessed  them  to  tell  me  that  there 
were  no  more  of  them?"  exclaimed  the  Taras- 
conian,  as  he  made  a  backward  jump. 

On  hearing  this  outcry  the  lion  lowered  his 
head,  and  taking  up  in  his  mouth  a  wooden 
bowl  that  was  before  him  on  the  footway, 
humbly  held  it  out  towards  Tartarin,  who  was 
immovable  with  stupefaction.  A  passing  Arab 
tossed  a  copper  into  the  bowl,  and  the  lion  wag- 
ged his  tail.  Thereupon  Tartarin  understood 
it  all.  He  saw  what  emotion  had  prevented 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  171 

him  previously  perceiving:  that  the  crowd  was 
gathered  around  a  poor,  tame,  blind  lion,  and 
that  two  stalwart  negroes,  armed  with  staves, 
were  marching  him  through  the  town  as  a 
Savoyard  does  a  marmot. 

The  blood  of  Tarascon  boiled  over  at  once. 

"Wretches  that  you  are!"  he  roared  in  a 
voice  of  thunder,  "  thus  to  debase  such  noble 
beasts! " 

Springing  to  the  lion,  he  wrenched  the 
loathsome  bowl  from  between  his  royal  jaws. 
The  two  Africans,  believing  they  had  a  thief 
to  contend  with,  rushed  upon  the  foreigner 
with  uplifted  cudgels.  There  was  a  dreadful 
conflict:  the  blackamoors  smiting,  the  women 
screaming,  and  the  youngsters  laughing.  An 
old  Jew  cobbler  bleated  out  of  the  hollow  of 
his  stall,  "  Dake  him  to  the  shustish  of  the 
beace  ! "  The  lion  himself,  in  his  dark  state, 
tried  to  roar  as  his  hapless  champion,  after  a 
desperate  struggle,  rolled  on  the  ground  among 
the  spilt  pence  and  the  sweepings. 

At  this  juncture  a   man   cleft  the  throng, 


172  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

made  the  negroes  stand  back  with  a  word,  and 
the  women  and  urchins  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  lifted  up  Tartarin,  brushed  him  down, 
shook  him  into  shape,  and  sat  him  breathless 
upon  a  corner-post. 

"  What,  prance,  is  it  you? "  said  the  good 
Tartarin,  rubbing  his  ribs. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  I,  my  valiant  friend.  As 
soon  as  your  letter  was  received,  I  entrusted 
Baya  to  her  brother,  hired  a  post-chaise,  flew 
fifty  leagues  as  fast  as  a  horse  could  go,  and 
here  I  am,  just  in  time  to  snatch  you  from  the 
brutality  of  these  ruffians.  What  have  you 
done,  in  the  name  of  just  Heaven,  to  bring  this 
ugly  trouble  upon  you?" 

"What  done,  prince?  It  was  too  much  for 
me  to  see  this  unfortunate  lion  with  a  begging- 
bowl  in  his  mouth,  humiliated,  conquered,  buf- 
feted about,  set  up  as  a  laughing-stock  to  all 
this  Moslem  rabble" 

"  But  you  are  wrong,  my  noble  friend.  On 
the  contrary,  this  lion  is  an  object  of  respect 
and  adoration.  This  is  a  sacred  beast  who  be- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  173 

longs  to  a  great  monastery  of  lions,  founded 
three  hundred  years  ago  by  Mahomet  Ben 
Aouda,  a  kind  of  fierce  and  forbidding  La 
Trappe;  full  of  roarings  and  wild-beastly  odors, 
where  strange  monks  rear  and  feed  lions  by  hun- 
dreds, and  send  them  out  all  over  Northern 
Africa,  accompanied  by  begging  brothers.  The 
alms  they  receive  serve  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  monastery  and  its  mosques;  and  the  two 
negroes  showed  so  much  displeasure  just  now 
because  it  was  their  conviction  that  the  lion 
under  their  charge  would  forthwith  devour 
them  if  a  single  penny  of  their  collection  were 
lost  or  stolen  through  any  fault  of  theirs." 

On  hearing  this  incredible  and  yet  veracious 
story  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  delighted,  and 
sniffed  the  air  noisily. 

"What  pleases  me  in  this,"  he  remarked,  as 
the  summing  up  of  his  opinion,  "  is  that, 
whether  Monsieur  Bombonnel  likes  it  or  not. 
there  are  still  lions  in  Algeria" 

"I  should  think  there  were!"  ejaculated  the 
prince  enthusiastically.  "  We  will  start  to- 


174  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

morrow  beating  up  the  Shelliff  Plain,  and  you 
will  see  lions  enough!  " 

"What,  prince!  have  you  an  intention  to  go 
a-hunting,  too?  " 

"Of  course!  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to 
leave  you  to  march  by  yourself  into  the  heart 
of  Africa,  in  the  midst  of  ferocious  tribes  of 
whose  languages  and  usages  you  are  ignorant? 
No,  no,  illustrious  Tartarin,  I  shall  quit  you 
no  more.  Go  where  you  will,  I  shall  make  one 
of  the  party." 

"  0  prance  !  prance ! " 

The  beaming  Tartarin  hugged  the  devoted 
Gregory  to  his  breast  at  the  proud  thought  of 
his  going  to  have  a  foreign  prince  to  accom- 
pany him  in  his  hunting  after  the  example  of 
Jules  Gerard,  Bombonnel,  and  other  famous 
lion-slayers. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   CARAVAN   OX   THE   MARCH. 

LEAVING  Milianah  at  the  earliest  hour  next 
morning,  the  intrepid  Tartarin  and  the  no  less 
intrepid  Prince  Gregory  descended  towards  the 
Shelliff  Plain  through  a  delightful  gorge  shaded 
with  jessamine,  carouba,  tuyas,  and  wild-olive 
trees,  between  hedges  of  little  native  gardens 
and  thousands  of  merry,  lively  rills,  which  scam- 
pered down  from  rock  to  rock  with  a  singing 
splash  —  a  bit  of  landscape  meet  for  the 
Lebanon. 

As  much  loaded  with  arms  as  the  great  Tar- 
tarin, Prince  Gregory  had,  over  and  above  that, 
donned  a  queer  but  magnificent  military  cap, 
all  covered  with  gold  lace  and  a  trimming  of 
oak-leaves  in  silver  cord,  which  gave  His  High- 
ness the  aspect  of  a  Mexican  general  or  a  rail- 
way station-master  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube. 

175 


176  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

This  plague  of  a  cap  much  puzzled  the  be- 
holder; and  as  he  timidly  craved  some  explana- 
tion, the  prince  gravely  answered: 

"It  is  a  kind  of  headgear  indispensable  for 
travel  in  Algeria." 

Whilst  brightening  up  the  peak  with  a  sweep 
of  his  sleeve,  he  instructed  his  simple  compan- 
ion in  the  important  part  which  the  military 
cap  plays  in  the  French  connection  with  the 
Arabs,  and  the  terror  this  article  of  army  in- 
signia alone  has  the  privilege  of  inspiring,  so 
that  the  Civil  Service  has  been  obliged  to  put 
all  its  employes  in  caps,  from  the  extra-copyist 
to  the  receiver-general.  To  govern.  Algeria 
(the  prince  is  still  speaking)  there  is  no  need  of 
a  strong  head,  or  even  of  any  head  at  all.  A 
military  cap  does  it  alone,  if  showy  and  belaced, 
and  shining  at  the  top  of  a  non-human  pole,  like 
Gessler's. 

Thus  chatting  and  philosophising,  the  cara- 
van proceeded.  The  barefooted  porters  leaped 
from  rock  to  rock  with  ape-like  screams.  The 
gun-cases  clanked,  and  the  guns  themselves 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  K7 

flashed.  The  natives  who  were  passing,  sa- 
laamed to  the  ground  before  the  magic  cap.  Up 
above,  on  the  ramparts  of  Milianah,  the  head 
of  the  Arab  Department,  who  was  out  for  an 
airing  with  his  wife,  hearing  these  unusual 
noises,  and  seeing  the  weapons  gleam  between 
the  branches,  fancied  there  was  a  revolt,  and 
ordered  the  drawbridge  to  be  raised,  the  gen- 
eral alarm  to  be  sounded,  and  the  whole  town 
put  under  a  state  of  siege. 

A  capital  commencement  for  the  caravan! 

Unfortunately,  before  the  day  ended,  things 
went  wrong.  Of  the  black  luggage-bearers, 
one  was  doubled  up  with  atrocious  colics  from 
having  eaten  the  diachylon  out  of  the  medicine- 
chest;  another  fell  on  the  roadside  dead  drunk 
with  camphorated  brandy;  the  third,  carrier  of 
the  traveling-album,  deceived  by  the  gilding  on 
the  clasps  into  the  persuasion  that  he  was  flying 
with  the  treasures  of  Mecca,  ran  off  into  the 
Zaccar  on  his  best  legs. 

This  required  consideration.      The  caravan 


178  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

halted,  and  held  a  council  in  the  broken  shadow 
of  an  old  fig-tree. 

"It's  my  advice  that  we  turn  up  negro 
porters  from  this  evening  forward,"  said  the 
prince,  trying  without  success  to  melt  a  cake  of 
compressed  meat  in  an  improved  patent  triple- 
bottomed  sauce-pan.  "  There  is,  haply,  an 
Arab  trader  quite  near  here.  The  best  thing  to 
do  is  to  stop  there,  and  buy  some  donkeys." 

"  No,  no;  no  donkeys,"  quickly  interrupted 
Tartarin,  becoming  quite  red  at  memory  of 
Noiraud.  "  How  can  you  expect,"  he  added, 
hypocrite  that  he  was,  "that  such  little  beasts 
could  carry  all  our  apparatus?  " 

The  prince  smiled. 

"You  are  making  a  mistake,  my  illustrious 
friend.  However  weakly  and  meagre  the  Al- 
gerian bourriquot  may  appear  to  you,  he  has 
solid  loins.  He  must  have  them  so  to  support 
all  that  he  does.  Just  ask  the  Arabs.  Hark  to 
how  they  explain  the  French  Colonial  organiza- 
tion. '  On  the  top,'  they  say,  '  is  Mossoo,  the 
Governor,  with  a  heavy  club  to  rap  the  staff;  the 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  179 

staff,  for  revenge,  canes  the  soldier;  the  soldier 
clubs  the  settler,  and  he  hammers  the  Arab;  the 
Arab  smites  the  negro,  the  negro  beats  the  Jew, 
and  he  takes  it  out  of  the  donkey.  The  poor 
"bourriquot,  having  nobody  to  belabor,  arches  up 
his  back  and  bears  it  all.'  You  see  clearly  now 
that  he  can  bear  your  boxes." 

"  All  the  same,"  remonstrated  Tartarin,  "  it 
strikes  me  that  jackasses  will  not  chime  in 
nicely  with  the  effect  of  our  caravan.  I  want 
something  more  Oriental.  For  instance,  if  we 
could  only  get  a  camel " 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  said  His  Highness; 
and  off  they  started  for  the  Arab  mart. 

It  was  held  a  few  miles  away,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Shelliff.  There  were  five  or  six  thousand 
Arabs  in  tatters  here,  groveling  in  the  sunshine 
and  noisily  trafficking,  amid  jars  of  black  olives, 
pots  of  honey,  bags  of  spices,  and  great  heaps  of 
cigars;  huge  fires  were  roasting  whole  sheep, 
basted  with  butter;  in  open-air  slaughter-houses 
stark,  naked  negroes,  with  ruddy  arms  and  their 


180  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

feet  in  gore,  were  cutting  up  kids  hanging  from 
crosspoles,  with  small  knives. 

In  one  corner,  under  a  tent  patched  with  a 
thousand  colors,  a  Moorish  clerk  of  the  market 
in  spectacles  scrawled  in  a  large  book.  Here 
was  a  cluster  of  men  shouting  with  rage:  it  was 
a  spinning-jenny  game,  set  on  a  corn-measure, 
and  Kabyles  were  ready  to  cut  one  another's 
throats  over  it.  Yonder  were  laughs  and  con- 
tortions of  delight:  it  was  a  Jew  trader  on  a 
mule  drowning  in  the  Shelliff.  Then  there 
were  dogs,  scorpions,  ravens,  and  flies — rather 
flies  than  anything  else. 

But  a  plentiful  lack  of  camels  abounded. 
They  finally  unearthed  one,  though,  of  which 
the  M'zabites  were  trying  to  get  rid — the  real 
ship  of  the  desert,  the  classical,  standard  camel, 
bald,  woe-begone,  with  a  long  Bedouin  head, 
and  its  hump  become  limp  in  consequence  of 
unduly  long  fasts,  hanging  melancholically  on 
one  side. 

Tartarin  considered  it  so  handsome  that  he 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  181 

wanted  the  entire  party  to  get  upon  it.  Still 
his  Oriental  craze! 

The  beast  knelt  down  for  them  to  strap  on 
the  boxes. 

The  prince  enthroned  himself  on  the  animal's 
neck.  For  the  sake  of  the  greater  majesty, 
Tartarin  got  them  to  hoist  him  on  the  top  of 
the  hump  between  two  boxes,  where,  proud,  and 
cosily  settled  down,  he  saluted  the  whole  mar- 
ket with  a  lofty  wave  of  the  hand,  and  gave  the 
signal  of  departure. 

Thunderation!  if  the  people  of  Tarascon 
could  only  have  seen  him! 

The  camel  rose,  straightened  up  its  long, 
knotty  legs,  and  stepped  out. 

Oh,  stupor!  At  the  end  of  a  few  strides  Tar- 
tarin felt  he  was  losing  color,  and  the  heroic 
Chechia  assumed  one  by  one  its  former  positions 
in  the  days  of  sailing  in  the  Zouave.  This  devil's 
own  camel  pitched  and  tossed  like  a  frigate. 

''France!  prance!"  gasped  Tartarin,  pallid 
as  a  ghost,  as  he  clung  to  the  dry  tuft  of  the 
hump,  "  prance,  let's  get  down.  I  find — I  feel 


182  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

that  I  m — m — must  get  off,  or  I  shall  disgrace 
France." 

A  deal  of  good  that  talk  was — the  camel  was 
on  the  go,  and  nothing  could  stop  it.  Behind 
it  raced  four  thousand  barefooted  Arabs,  wav- 
ing their  hands  and  laughing  like  mad,  so  that 
they  made  six  hundred  thousand  white  teeth 
glitter  in  the  sun. 

The  great  man  of  Tarascon  had  to  resign 
himself  to  circumstances.  He  sadly  collapsed 
on  the  hump,  where  the  fez  took  all  the  posi- 
tions it  fancied,  and  France  was  disgraced. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

THE    NIGHT-WATCH    IN"    A    POISON-TREE    GROVE. 

SWEETLY  picturesque  as  was  their  new  steed, 
our  lion-hunters  had  to  give  it  up,  purely  out 
of  consideration  for  the  red  cap,  of  course.  So 
they  continued  the  journey  on  foot  as  before, 
the  caravan  tranquilly  proceeding  southwardly 
by  short  stages,  the  Tarasconian  in  the  van,  the 
Montenegrin  in  the  rear,  and  the  camel,  with 
the  weapons  in  their  cases,  in  the  ranks. 

The  expedition  lasted  nearly  a  month. 

During  that  seeking  for  lions  which  he  never 
found,  the  dreadful  Tartarin  roamed  from 
douar  to  douar  on  the  immense  plain  of  the 
Shelliff,  through  the  odd  but  formidable 
French  Algeria,  where  the  old  Oriental  per- 
fumes are  complicated  by  a  strong  blend  of  ab- 
sinthe and  the  barracks,  Abraham  and  the  "Zou- 
zou"  mingled,  something  fairy-tale-like  and 

183 


184    .  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

simply  burlesque,  like  a  page  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment related  by  Tommy  Atkins. 

A  curious  sight  for  those  who  have  eyes  that 
can  see. 

A  wild  and  corrupted  people  whom  we  are 
civilizing  by  teaching  them  our  vices.  The 
ferocious  and  uncontrolled  authority  of  gro- 
tesque bashaws,  who  gravely  use  their  grand 
cordons  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  as  handker- 
chiefs, and  for  a  mere  yea  or  nay  order  a  man 
to  be  bastinadoed.  It  is  the  justice  of  the  con- 
scienceless, bespectacled  cadis  under  the  palm- 
tree,  Mawworms  of  the  Koran  and  Law,  who 
dream  languidly  of  promotion  and  sell  their 
decrees  as  Esau  did  his  birthright,  for  a  dish 
of  lentils  or  sweetened  kouskous.  Drunken 
and  libertine  cadis  are  they,  formerly  servants 
to  some  General  Yusuf  or  the  like,  who  get  in- 
toxicated on  champagne,  along  with  laundresses 
from  Port  Mahon,  and  fatten  on  roast  mutton, 
whilst  before  their  tents  the  whole  tribe  waste 
away  with  hunger,  and  fight  with  the  harriers 
for  the  bones  of  the  lordly  feast. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  185 

All  around  spread  the  plains  in  waste,  burnt 
grass,  leafless  shrubs,  thickets  of  cactus  and 
mastic — "the  Granary  of  France! "' — a  granary 
void  of  grain,  alas!  and  rich  alone  in  vermin 
and  jackals.  Abandoned  camps,  frightened 
tribes  fleeing  from  them  and  famine,  they  know 
not  whither,  and  strewing  the  road  with 
corpses.  At  long  intervals  French  villages, 
with  the  dwellings  in  ruins,  the  fields  untilled, 
the  maddened  locusts  gnawing  even  the  win- 
dow-blinds, and  all  the  settlers  in  the  drinking- 
places,  absorbing  absinthe  and  discussing  pro- 
jects of  reform  and  the  Constitution. 

This  is  what  Tartarin  might  have  seen  had 
he  given  himself  the  trouble;  but,  wrapped  up 
entirely  in  his  leonine  hunger,  the  son  of  Taras- 
con went  straight  on,  looking  to  neither  right 
nor  left,  his  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  imagi- 
nary monsters  which  never  really  appeared. 

As  tke  shelter-tent  was  stubborn  in  not  un- 
folding, and  the  compressed  meat-cakes  would 
not  dissolve,  the  caravan  was  obliged  to  stop, 
morn  and  eve,  at  tribal  camps.  Everywhere, 


186  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

thanks  to  the  gorgeous  cap  of  Prince  Gregory, 
our  hunters  were  welcomed  with  ope»  arms. 
They  lodged  in  the  aghas'  old  palaces,  large, 
white,  windowless  farm-honses,  where  they 
found,  pell-mell,  narghilehs  and  mahogany  fur- 
niture, Smyrna  carpets  and  moderator  lamps, 
cedar  coffers  full  of  Turkish  sequins,  and 
French  statuette-decked  clocks  in  the  Louis 
Philippe  style. 

Everywhere,  too,  Tartarin  was  given  splen- 
drous  galas,  diffas,  and  fantasias,  which,  being 
interpreted,  mean  feasts  and  circuses.  In  his 
honor  whole  goums  blazed  away  powder,  and 
floated  their  burnouses  in  the  sun.  When  the 
powder  was  burnt,  the  agha  would  come  and 
hand  in  his  bill.  This  is  what  is  called  Arab 
hospitality. 

But  always  no  lions,  no  more  than  on  London 
Bridge. 

Nevertheless,  the  Tarasconian  did  not  grow 
disheartened.  Ever  bravely  diving  more  deeply 
into  the  South,  he  spent  the  days  in  beating  up 
the  thickets,  probing  the  dwarf-palms  with  the 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  187 

muzzle  of  his  rifle,  and  saying  "  Boh!  "  to  every 
bush.  And  every  evening,  before  lying  down, 
he  went  into  ambush  for  two  or  three  hours. 
Useless  trouble,  however,  for  the  lion  did  not 
show  himself. 

One  evening,  though,  going  on  six  o'clock, 
as  the  caravan  scrambled  through  a  violet-hued 
mastic-grove,  where  fat  quails  tumbled  about  in 
the  grass,  drowsy  through  the  heat,  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon  fancied  he  heard — though  afar  and 
very  vague,  and  thinned  down  by  the  breeze — 
that  wondrous  roaring  to  which  he  had  so  often 
listened  by  Mitaine's  Menagerie  at  home. 

At  first  the  hero  feared  he  was  dreaming;  but 
in  an  instant  further  the  roaring  recommenced 
more  distinct,  although  yet  remote;  and  this 
time  the  camel's  hump  shivered  in  terror,  and 
made  the  tinned  meats  and  arms  in  the  cases 
rattle,  whilst  all  the  dogs  in  the  camps  were 
heard  howling  in  every  corner  of  the  horizon. 

Beyond  doubt  this  was  the  lion. 

Quick!  quick!  to  the  ambush.  There  was  not 
a  minute  to  lose. 


188  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Near  at  hand  there  happened  to  be  an  old 
marabout's,  or  saint's,  tomb,  with  a  white 
cupola,  and  the  defunct's  large  yellow  slippers 
placed  in  a  niche  over  the  door,  and  a  mass  of 
odd  offerings — hems  of  blankets,  gold  thread, 
red  hair — hung  on  the  wall. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  left  his  prince  and  his 
camel  and  went  in  search  of  a  good  spot  for 
lying  in  wait.  Prince  Gregory  wanted  to  fol- 
low him,  but  the  Tarasconian  refused,  bent  on 
confronting  Leo  alone.  But  still  he  besought 
His  Highness  not  to  go  too  far  away,  and,  as  .a 
measure  of  foresight,  he  entrusted  him  with  his 
pocket-book,  a  good-sized  one,  full  of  precious 
papers  and  bank-notes,  which  he  feared  would 
get  torn  by  the  lion's  claws.  This  done,  our 
hero  looked  up  a  good  place. 

A  hundred  steps  in  front  of  the  temple  a 
little  clump  of  rose-laurel  shook  in  the  twilight 
haze  on  the  edge  of  a  rivulet  all  but  dried  up. 
There  it  was  that  Tartarin  went  and  esconced 
himself,  one  knee  on  the  ground,  according  to 
the  regular  rule,  his  rifle  in  his  hand,  and  his 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  189 

huge  hunting-knife  stuck  boldly  before  him  in 
the  sandy  bank. 

Xight  fell. 

The  rosy  tint  of  nature  changed  into  violet, 
and  then  into  dark  blue.  A  pretty  pool  of  clear 
vater  gleamed  like  a  hand-glass  over  the  river- 
pebbles;  this  was  the  watering-place  of  the  wild 
animals. 

On  the  other  slope  the  whitish  trail  was  dimly 
to  be  discerned  which  their  heavy  paws  had 
traced  in  the  bush — a  mysterious  path  which 
made  one's  flesh  creep.  Join  to  this  sensation 
that  from  the  vague  swarming  sound  in  African 
forests,  the  swishing  of  branches,  the  velvety 
pads  of  roving  creatures,  the  jackal's  shrill  yelp, 
and  up  in  the  sky,  two  or  three  hundred  feet 
aloft,  vast  flocks  of  cranes  passing  on  with 
screams  like  poor  little  children  having  their 
weasands  slit.  You  will  own  that  there  were 
grounds  for  a  man  being  moved. 

Tartarin  was  so,  and  even  more  than  that, 
for  the  poor  fellow's  teeth  chattered,  and  on 
the  cross-bar  of  his  hunting-knife,  planted  up- 


190  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

right  in  the  bank,  as  we  repeat,  his  rifle-barrel 
rattled  like  a  pair  of  castanets.  Do  not  ask  too 
much  of  a  man!  There  are  times  when  one  is 
not  in  the  mood;  and,  moreover,  where  would 
be  the  merit  if  heroes  were  never  afraid  ? 

Well,  yes,  Tartarin  was  afraid,  and  all  the 
time,  too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Neverthe- 
less he  held  out  for  an  hour;  better,  for  two; 
but  heroism  has  its  limits.  Nigh  him,  in  the 
dry  part  of  the  rivulet-bed,  the  Tarasconian  un- 
expectedly heard  the  sound  of  steps  and  of  peb- 
bles rolling.  This  time  terror  lifted  him  off  the 
ground.  He  banged  away  both  barrels  at  hap- 
hazard into  the  night,  and  retreated  as  fast  as 
his  legs  would  carry  him  to  the  marabout's 
chapel-vault,  leaving  his  knife  standing  up  in 
the  sand  like  a  cross  commemorative  of  the 
grandest  panic  that  ever  assailed  the  soul  of  a 
conqueror  of  hydras. 

"  Help!  this  way,  prance;  the  lion  is  on  me!" 

There  was  silence. 

"Prance,  prance,  are  you  there?" 

The   prince  was  not  there.     On  the  white 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  191 

moonlit  wall  of  the  fane  the  camel  alone  cast 
the  queer-shaped  shadow  of  his  protuberance. 
Prince  Gregory  had  cut  and  run  with  the  wallet 
of  bank-notes.  His  Highness  had  been  for  the 
month  past  awaiting  this  opportunity. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BAGGED  HIM  AT  LAST. 

IT  was  not  until  early  on  the  morrew  of  this 
adventurous  and  dramatic  eve  that  our  hero 
awoke,  and  acquired  assurance  doubly  sure  that 
the  prince  and  the  treasure  had  really  gone  off, 
without  any  prospect  of  return.  When  he  saw 
himself  alone  in  the  little  white  tomb-house,  be- 
trayed, robbed,  abandoned  in  the  heart  of 
savage  Algeria,  with  a  one-humped  camel  and 
some  pocket-money  as  all  his  resources,  then  did 
the  representative  of  Tarascon  for  the  first  time 
doubt.  He  doubted  Montenegro,  friendship, 
glory,  and  even  lions;  and  the  great  man  blub- 
bered bitterly. 

Whilst  he  was  pensively  seated  on  the  sill  of 
the  sanctuary,  holding  his  head  between  his 
hands  and  his  gun  between  his  legs,  with  the 
camel  mooning  at  him,  the  thicket  over  the  way 

192 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  193 

was  divided,  and  the  stupor-stricken  Tartarin 
saw  a  gigantic  lion  appear  not  a  dozen  paces  off. 
It  thrust  out  its  high  head  and  emitted  powerful 
roars,  which  made  the  temple  walls  shake  be- 
neath their  votive  decorations,  and  even  the 
saint's  slippers  dance  in  their  niche. 

The  Tarasconian  alone  did  not  tremble. 

"At  last  you've  come!"  he  shouted,  jumping 
up  and  leveling  the  rifle. 

Bang,  bang!  went  a  brace  of  shells  into  its 
head. 

It  was  done.  For  a  minute,  on  the  fiery 
background  of  the  Afric  sky,  there  was  a  dread- 
ful firework  display  of  scattered  brains,  smok- 
ing blood,  and  tawny  hair.  When  all  fell,  Tar- 
tarin perceived  two  colossal  negroes  furiously 
running  towards  him,  brandishing  cudgels. 
They  were  his  two  negro  acquaintances  of 
Milianah! 

Oh,  misery! 

This  was  "the  domesticated  lion,  the  poor 
blind  beggar  of  the  Mohammed  Monastery, 


194  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

whom  the  Tarasconian's  bullets  had  knocked 
over. 

This  time,  spite  of  Mahound,  Tartarin  es- 
caped neatly.  Drunk  with  fanatical  fury,  the 
two  African  collectors  would  have  surely  beaten 
him  to  pulp  had  not  the  god  of  chase  and  war 
sent  him  a  delivering  angel  in  the  shape  of  the 
rural  constable  of  the  Orleansville  commune. 
By  a  bypath  this  garde  champetre  came  up,  his 
sword  tucked  under  his  arm. 

The  sight  of  the  municipal  cap  suddenly 
calmed  the  negroes'  choler.  Peaceful  and  ma- 
jestic, the  officer  with  the  brass  badge  drew  up 
a  report  on  the  affair,  ordered  the  camel  to  be 
loaded  with  what  remained  of  the  king  of  beasts, 
and  the  plaintiffs  as  well  as  the  delinquent  to 
follow  him,  proceeding  to  Orleansville,  where 
all  was  deposited  with  the  law-courts  receiver. 

There  issued  a  long  and  alarming  case! 

After  the  Algeria  of  the  native  tribes  which 
he  had  overrun,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  became 
thence  acquainted  with  another  Algeria,  not  less 
weird  and  to  be  dreaded — the  Algeria  in  the 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  195 

towns,  surcharged  with  lawyers  and  their 
papers.  He  got  to  know  the  pettifogger  who 
does  business  at  the  back  of  a  cafe — the  legal 
Bohemian,  with  documents  reeking  of  worm- 
wood bitters  and  white  neckcloths  spotted  with 
champoreau:  the  ushers,  the  attorneys,  all  the 
locusts  of  stamped  paper,  meagre  and  famished, 
who  eat  up  the  colonist  body  and  boots — ay,  to 
the  very  straps  of  them,  and  leave  him  peeled 
to  the  core  like  an  Indian  cornstalk,  stripped 
leaf  by  leaf. 

Before  all  else  it  was  necessary  to  ascertain 
whether  the  lion  had  been  killed  on  the  civil  or 
the  military  territory.  In  the  former  case  the 
matter  regarded  the  Tribunal  of  Commerce;  in 
the  second,  Tartarin  would  be  dealt  with  by  the 
Council  of  War;  and  at  the  mere  name  the  im- 
pressionable Tarasconian  saw  himself  shot  at 
the  foot  of  the  ramparts  or  huddled  up  in  a 
casemate-silo. 

The  puzzle  lay  in  the  limitation  of  the  two 
territories  being  very  hazy  in  Algeria. 

At  length,  after  a  month's  running  about,  en- 


196  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

tanglements,  and  waiting  under  the  sun  in  the 
yards  of  Arab  Departmental  offices,  it  was  es- 
tablished that,  whereas  the  lion  had  been  killed 
on  the  military  territory,  on  the  other  hand 
Tartarin  was  in  the  civil  territory  when  he  shot. 
So  the  case  was  decided  in  the  civil  courts,  and 
our  hero  was  let  off  on  paying  two  thousand 
five  hundred  francs  damages,  costs  not  included. 

How  could  he  pay  such  a  sum? 

The  few  piastres  escaped  from  the  prince's 
sweep  had  long  since  gone  in  legal  documents 
and  judicial  libations.  The  unfortunate  lion- 
destroyer  was  therefore  reduced  to  selling  the 
store  of  guns  by  retail,  rifle  by  rifle;  so  went  the 
daggers,  the  Malay  kreescs,  and  the  life-pre- 
servers. A  grocer  purchased  the  preserved  ali- 
ments; an  apothecary  what  remained  of  the 
medicaments.  The  big  boots  themselves  walked 
off  after  the  improved  tent  to  a  dealer  of  curiosi- 
ties, who  elevated  them  to  the  dignity  of  "  rari- 
ties from  Cochin-China." 

When  everything  wras  paid  up,  only  the  lion's 
skin  and  the  camel  remained  to  Tartarin.  The 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  197 

hide  he  had  carefully  packed,  to  be  sent  to 
Tarascon  to  the  address  of  brave  Commandant 
Bravida,  and,  later  on,  we  shall  see  what  came 
of  this  fabulous  trophy.  As  for  the  camel,  he 
reckoned  on  making  use  of  him  to  get  back  to 
Algiers,  not  by  riding  on  him,  but  by  selling 
him  to  pay  his  coach-fare — the  best  way  to  em- 
ploy a  camel  in  traveling.  Unhappily  the 
beast  was  difficult  to  place,  and  no  one  would 
offer  a  copper  for  him. 

Still  Tartarin  wanted  to  regain  Algiers  by 
hook  or  crook.  He  was  in  haste  again  to  be- 
hold Baya's  blue  bodice,  his  little  snuggery  and 
his  fountains,  as  well  as  to  repose  on  the  white 
trefoils  of  his  little  cloister  whilst  awaiting 
money  from  France.  So  our  hero  did  not  hesi- 
tate; distressed  but  not  downcast,  he  undertook 
to  make  the  journey  afoot  and  penniless  by 
short  stages. 

In  this  enterprise  the  camel  did  not  cast  him 
off.  The  strange  animal  had  taken  an  unac- 
countable fancy  for  his  master,  and  on  seeing 
him  leave  Orleansville,  he  set  to  striding  stead- 


198  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

fastly  behind  him,  regulating  his  pace  by  his, 
and  never  quitting  him  by  a  yard. 

At  the  first  outset  Tartarin  found  this  touch- 
ing; such  fidelity  and  devotion  above  proof  went 
to  his  heart,  all  the  more  because  the  creature 
was  accommodating,  and  fed  himself  on  noth- 
ing. Nevertheless,  after  a  few  days,  the  Taras- 
conian  was  worried  by  having  this  glum  com- 
panion perpetually  at  his  heels,  to  remind  him 
of  his  misadventures.  Ire  arising,  he  hated 
him  for  his  sad  aspect,  hump  and  gait  of  a 
goose  in  harness.  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  he 
held  him  as  his  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  and  only 
pondered  on  how  to  shake  him  off;  but  the  fol- 
lower would  not  be  shaken  off.  Tartarin  at- 
tempted to  lose  him,  but  the  camel  always  found 
him;  he  tried  to  outrun  him,  but  the  camel  ran 
faster.  He  bade  him  begone,  and  hurled  stones 
at  him.  The  camel  stopped  with  a  mournful 
mien,  but  in  a  minute  resumed  the  pursuit,  and 
always  ended  by  overtaking  him.  Tartarin  had 
to  resign  himself. 

For  all  that,  when,  after  eight  full  days  of 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  199 

tramping,  the  dusty  and  harassed  Tarasconian 
espied  the  first  white  housetops  of  Algiers  glim- 
mer from  afar  in  the  verdure,  and  when  he  got 
to  the  city  gates  on  the  noisy  Mustapha  Ave- 
nue, amid  the  Zouaves,  Biskris,  and  Mahonnais, 
all  swarming  around  him  and  staring  at  him 
trudging  hy  with  his  camel,  overtasked  patience 
escaped  him. 

"No!  no!"  he  growled,  "it  is  not  likely!  I 
cannot  enter  Algiers  with  such  an  animal! 

Profiting  by  a  jam  of  vehicles,  he  turned  off 
into  the  fields  and  jumped  into  a  ditch.  In  a 
minute  or  so  he  saw  over  his  head  on  the  high- 
way the  camel  flying  off  with  long  stridex  and 
stretching  his  neck  with  a  wistful  air. 

Eelieved  of  a  great  weight  thereby,  the  hero 
sneaked  out  of  his  covert,  and  entered  the  town 
anew  by  a  circuitous  path  which  skirted  the 
wall  of  his  own  little  garden. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CATASTROPHES  UPON  CATASTROPHES. 

ENTIRELY  astonished  was  Tartarin  before  his 
Moorish  dwelling  when  he  stopped. 

Day  was  dying  and  the  street  deserted. 
Through  the  low  pointed-arch  doorway  which 
the  negress  had  forgotten  to  close,  laughter  was 
heard;  and  the  clink  of  wine-glasses,  the  pop- 
ping of  champagne  corks;  and,  floating  over  all 
the  jolly  uproar,  a  feminine  voice  singing 
clearly  and  joyously: 

"  Do  you  like,  Marco  la  Bella, 

To  dance  in  the  hall  hung  with  bloom?" 

"Throne  of  heaven!"  ejaculated  the  Taras- 
conian,  turning  pale,  as  he  rushed  into  the  en- 
closure. 

Hapless  Tartarin!  what  a  sight  awaited  him! 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  little  cloister, 

amongst    bottles,    pastry,    scattered    cushions, 
200 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  201 

pipes,  tambourines,  and  guitars,  Baya  was  sing- 
ing "  Marco  la  Bella  "  with  a  ship  captain's  cap 
over  one  ear.  She  had  on  no  blue  vest  or 
bodice;  indeed  her  only  wear  was  a  silvery  gauze 
wrapper  and  full  pink  trousers.  At  her  feet, 
on  a  rug,  surfeited  with  love  and  sweetmeats, 
Barbassou,  the  infamous  skipper  Barbassou,  was 
bursting  with  laughter  at  hearing  her. 

The  apparition  of  Tartarin,  haggard,  thinned, 
dusty,  his  flaming  eyes,  and  the  bristling  up 
fez  tassel,  sharply  interrupted  this  tender 
Turkish-Marseilles  orgie.  Baya  piped  the  low 
whine  of  a  frightened  leveret,  and  ran  for  safety 
into  the  house.  But  Barbassou  did  not  wince; 
he  only  laughed  the  louder,  saying: 

"Ha,  ha,  Monsieur  Tartarin!  What  do  you 
gay  to  that  now?  You  see  she  does  know 
French." 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  advanced  furiously,  cry- 
ing: 

"  Captain!" 

"Digo-li  que  vengue,  moun  bon! — tell  him 
what's  happened,  old  dear!*'  screamed  the  Moor- 


202  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

ish  woman,  leaning  over  the  first  floor  gallery 
with  a  pretty  low-bred  gesture. 

The  poor  man,  overwhelmed,  let  himself  col- 
lapse upon  a  drum.  His  genuine  Moorish 
beauty  not  only  knew  French,  but  the  French  of 
Marseilles! 

"  I  told  you  not  to  trust  the  Algerian  girls," 
observed     Captain     Barbassou     sententiously. 
"  They're    as    tricky    as    your    Montenegrin 
prince." 
.  Tartarin  lifted  his  head. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  prince  is?" 

"  Oh,  he's  not  far  off.  He  has  gone  to  live 
five  years  in  the  handsome  prison  of  Mustapha. 
The  rogue  let  himself  be  caught  with  his  hand 
in  the  pocket.  Anyways,  this  is  not  the  first 
time  he  has  been  clapped  into  the  calaboose. 
His  Highness  has  already  done  three  years 
somewhere,  and — stop  a  bit!  I  believe  it  was 
at  Tarascon." 

"At  Tarascon!"  cried  out  her  worthiest  son, 
abruptly  enlightened.  "That's  how  he  only 
knew  one  part  of  the  town." 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  203 

"Hey?  Of  course.  Tarascon — a  jail  bird's- 
eye  view  from  the  state  prison.  I  tell  you,  my 
poor  Monsieur  Tartarin,  you  have  to  keep  your 
peepers  jolly  well  skinned  in  this  deuce  of  a 
country,  or  be  exposed  to  very  disagreeable 
things.  For  a  sample,  there's  the  muezzin's 
game  with  you." 

"What  game?     Which  muezzin?" 

"Why  your'n,  of  course!  The  chap  across 
the  way  who  is  making  up  to  Baya.  That  news- 
paper, the  Alcbar,  told  the  yarn  t'other  day,  and 
all  Algiers  is  laughing  over  it  even  now.  It  is 
so  funny  for  that  steeplejack  up  aloft  in  his 
crow's-nest  to  make  declarations  of  love  under 
your  very  nose  to  the  little  beauty  whilst  sing- 
ing out  his  prayers,  and  making  appointments 
with  her  between  bits  of  the  Koran." 

"  AVhy,  then,  they're  all  scamps  in  this  coun- 
try!" howled  the  unlucky  Tarasconian. 

Barbassou  snapped  his  fingers  like  a  philoso- 
pher. 

"  My  dear  lad,  you  know,  these  new  countries 
are  'rum!'  But,  anyhow,  if  you'll  believe  me, 


'204  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

you'd  best  cut  back  to  Tarascon  at  full  speed.'* 

"  It's  easy  to  say,  '  Cut  back.'  Where's  the 
money  to  eome  from?  Don't  you  know  that  T 
was  plucked  out  there  in  the  desert?" 

"  What  does  that  matter?"  said  the  captain 
merrily.  "  The  Zouave  sails  to-morrow,  and  if 
you  like  I  will  take  you  home.  Does  that  suit 
you,  mate?  Ay?  Then  all  goes  well.  You 
have  only  one  thing  to  do.  There  are  some 
bottles  of  fizz  left,  and  half  the  pie.  Sit  you 
down  and  pitch  in  without  any  grudge." 

After  the  minute's  wavering  which  self-re- 
spect commanded,  the  Tarasconian  chose  his 
course  manfully.  Down  he  sat,  and  they 
touched  glasses.  Baya,  gliding  down  at  that 
chink,  sang  the  finale  of  "  Marco  la  Bella,"  and 
the  jollification  was  prolonged  deep  into  the 
night. 

About  3  a.m.,  with  a  light  head  but  a  heavy 
foot,  our  good  Tarasconian  was  returning  from 
seeing  his  friend  the  captain  off,  when,  in  pass- 
ing the  mosque,  the  remembrance  of  his  muezzin 
and  his  practical  jokes  made  him  laugh,  and 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  205 

instantly  a  capital  idea  of  revenge  flitted 
through  his  brain. 

The  door  was  open.  He  entered,  threaded 
long  corridors  hung  with  mats,  mounted  and 
kept  on  mounting  till  he  finally  found  himself 
in  a  little  oratory,  where  an  openwork  iron  lan- 
tern swung  from  the  ceiling,  and  embroidered 
an  odd  pattern  in  shadows  upon  the  blanched 
walls. 

There  sat  the  crier  on  a  divan,  in  his  large 
turban  and  white  pelisse,  with  his  Mostaganam 
pipe,  and  a  bumper  of  absinthe  before  him, 
which  he  whipped  up  in  the  orthodox  manner, 
whilst  awaiting  the  hour  to  call  true  believers 
to  prayer.  At  view  of  Tartarin,  he  dropped  his 
pipe  in  terror. 

"  Not  a  word,  knave!"  said  the  Tarasconian, 
full  of  his  project.  "  Quick!  Off  with  turban 
and  coat!'' 

The  Turkish  priest-crier  tremblingly  handed 
over  his  outer  garments,  as  he  would  have  done 
with  anything  else.  Tartarin  donned  them, 


206  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

and  gravely  stepped  out  upon  the  minaret  plat- 
form. 

In  the  distance  the  sea  shone.  The  white 
roofs  glittered  in  the  moonbeams.  On  the  sea 
breeze  was  heard  the  strumming  of  a  few  be- 
lated guitars.  The  Tarasconian  muezzin  gath- 
ered himself  up  for  the  effort  during  a  space,, 
and  then,  raising  his  arms,  he  set  to  chanting  in 
a  very  shrill  voice: 

"La  Allah  il  Allah!  Mahomet  is  an  old  hum- 
bug! The  Orient,  the  Koran,  bashaws,  lions, 
Moorish  beauties — they  are  all  not  worth  a  fly's; 
skip!  There  is  nothing  left  but  gammoners. 
Long  live  Tarascon!" 

Whilst  the  illustrious  Tartarin,  in  his  queer 
jumbling  of  Arabic  and  Provengal,  flung  his. 
mirthful  maledictions  to  the  four  quarters,  sea,. 
town,  plain  and  mountain,  the  clear,  solemn 
voices  of  the  other  muezzins  answered  him,  tak- 
ing up  the  strain  from  minaret  to  minaret,  and 
the  believers  of  the  upper  town  devoutly  beat 
their  bosoms. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

TARASCON    AGAIN  ! 

MID-DAY  has  come. 

The  Zouave  had  her  steam  up,  ready  to  go. 
Upon  the  balcony  of  the  Valentin  Cafe,  high 
above,  the  officers  were  leveling  telescopes,  and 
with  the  colonel  at  their  head,  looking  at  the 
lucky  little  craft  that  was  going  back  to  France. 
This  is  tli3  main  distraction  of  the  staff.  On 
the  lower  level,  the  roads  glittered.  The  old 
Turkish  cannon  breaches,  stuck  up  along  the 
waterside,  blazed  in  the  sun.  The  passengers- 
hurried.  Biskris  and  Mahonnais  piled  their 
luggage  up  in  the  wherries. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  no  luggage.  Here 
he  comes  down  the  Rue  de  la  Marine  through 
the  little  market,  full  of  bananas  and  melons, 
accompanied  by  his  friend  Barbassou.  The 
hapless  Tarasconian  left  on  the  Moorish  strand 

207 


208  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

his  gun-cases  and  his  illusions,  and  now  he  had 
to  sail  for  Tarascon  with  his  hands  in  his  other- 
wise empty  pockets.  He  had  barely  leaped  into 
the  captain's  cutter  before  a  breathless  beast 
slid  down  from  the  heights  of  the  square  and 
galloped  towards  him.  It  was  the  faithful 
camel,  who  had  been  hunting  after  his  master 
in  Algiers  during  the  last  four-and-twenty 
hours. 

On  seeing  him,  Tartarin  changed  counte- 
nance, and  feigned  not  to  know  him,  but  the 
camel  was  not  going  to  be  put  off.  He  scam- 
pered along  the  quay;  he  whinnied  for  his 
friend,  and  regarded  him  with  affection. 

"  Take  me  away,"  his  sad  eyes  seemed  to  say, 
"  take  me  away  in  your  ship,  far,  far  from  this 
sham  Arabia,  this  ridiculous  Land  of  the  East, 
full  of  locomotives  and  stage  coaches,  where  a 
camel  is  so  sorely  out  of  keeping  that  I  do  not 
know  what  will  become  of  me.  You  are  the 
last  real  Turk,  and  I  am  the  last  camel.  Do 
not  let  us  part,  0  my  Tartarin!" 

"Is  that  camel  yours?"  the  captain  inquired. 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  209 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  replied  Tartarin,  who 
shuddered  at  the  idea  of  entering  Tarascon  with 
that  ridiculous  escort;  and,  impudently  deny- 
ing the  companion  of  his  misfortunes,  he 
spurned  the  Algerian  soil  with  his  foot,  and 
gave  the  cutter  the  shoving-off  start.  The  camel 
sniffed  of  the  water,  extended  its  neck,  cracked 
its  joints,  and,  jumping  in  behind  the  row-boat 
at  haphazard,  he  swam  towards  the  Zouave  with 
his  humpback  floating  like  a  bladder,  and  his 
long  neck  projecting  over  the  wave  like  the  beak 
of  a  galley. 

Cutter  and  camel  came  alongside  the  mail 
steamer  together. 

"  This  dromedary  regularly  cuts  me  up,"  ob- 
served Captain  Barbassou,  .quite  affected.  "  I 
have  a  good  mind  to  take  him  aboard  and  make 
a  present  of  him  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  at 
Marseilles.'' 

And  so  they  hauled  up  the  camel  with  many 
blocks  and  tackles  upon  the  deck,  being  in- 
creased in  weight  by  the  brine,  and  the  Zouave 
started. 


210  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

Tartarin  spent  the  two  days  of  the  crossing 
by  himself  in  his  stateroom,  not  because  the  sea 
was  rough,  or  that  the  red  fez  had  too  much  to 
suffer,  but  because  the  deuced  camel,  as  soon  as 
his  master  appeared  above  decks,  showed  him 
the  most  preposterous  attentions.  You  never 
did  see  a  camel  make  such  an  exhibition  of  a 
man  as  this. 

From  hour  to  hour,  through  the  cabin  port- 
holes, where  he  stuck  out  his  nose  now  and  then, 
Tartarin  saw  the  Algerian  blue  sky  pale  away; 
until  one  morning,  in  a  silvery  fog,  he  heard 
with  delight  Marseilles  bells  ringing  out.  The 
Zouave  had  arrived  and  cast  anchor. 

Our  man,  having  no  luggage,  got  off  without 
saying  anything,  hastily  slipped  through  Mar- 
seilles for  fear  he  was  still  pursued  by  the  camel, 
and  never  breathed  till  he  was  in  a  third-class 
carriage  making  for  Tarascon. 

Deceptive  security! 

Hardly  were  they  two  leagues  from  the  city 
before  every  head  was  stuck  out  of  window. 
There  were  outcries  and  astonishment.  Tar- 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  211 

tarin  looked  in  his  turn,  and — what  did  he 
descry!  the  camel,  reader,  the  inevitable  camel, 
racing  along  the  line  behind  the  train,  and  keep- 
ing up  with  it!  The  dismayed  Tartarin  drew 
back  and  shut  his  eyes. 

After  this  disastrous  expedition  of  his  he  had 
reckoned  on  slipping  into  his  house  incognito. 
But  the  presence  of  this  burdensome  quadru- 
ped rendered  the  thing  impossible.  What  kind 
of  a  triumphal  entry  would  he  make?  Good 
heavens!  not  a  sou,  not  a  lion,  nothing  to  show 
for  it  save  a  camel! 

"  Tarascon !  Tarascon !" 

He  was  obliged  to  get  down. 

0  amazement! 

Scarcely  had  the  hero's  red  fez  popped  out  of 
the  doorway  before  a  loud  shout  of  "  Tartarin 
forever!"  made  the  glazed  roof  of  the  railway 
station  tremble.  "  Long  life  to  Tartarin,  the 
lion-slayer!"  And  out  burst  the  windings  of 
horns  and  the  choruses  of  the  local  musical  so- 
cieties. 

Tartarin  felt  death  had  come:  he  believed  in 


212  Tartarin  of  Tarascon. 

a  hoax.  But,  no!  all  Tarascon  was  there,  wav- 
ing their  hats,  all  of  the  same  way  of  thinking. 
Behold  the  hrave  Commandant  Bravida,  Coste- 
calde  the  armorer,  the  Chief  Judge,  the  chemist, 
and  the  whole  noble  corps  of  cap-poppers,  who 
pressed  around  their  leader,  and  carried  him  in 
triumph  out  through  the  passages. 

Singular  effects  of  the  mirage! — the  hide  of 
the  blind  lion  sent  to  Bravida  was  the  cause  of 
all  this  riot.  With  that  humble  fur  exhibited 
in  the  club-room,  the  Tarasconians,  and,  at  the 
back  of  then?,  the  whole  South  of  France,  had 
grown  exalted.  The  Semaphore  newspaper  had 
spoken  of  it.  A  drama  had  been  invented.  It 
was  not  merely  a  solitary  lion  which  Tartarin 
had  slain,  but  ten,  nay,  twenty — pooh!  a  herd 
of  lions  had  been  made  marmalade  of.  Hence, 
on  disembarking  at  Marseilles,  Tartarin  was  al- 
ready celebrated  without  being  aware  of  it,  and 
an  enthusiastic  telegram  had  gone  on  before 
him  by  two  hours  to  his  native  place. 

But  what  capped  the  climax  of  the  popular 
gladness  was  to  see  a  fancifully  shaped  animal, 


Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  213 

covered  with  foam  and  dust,  appear  behind  the 
hero,  and  stumble  down  the  station  stairs. 

Tarascon  for  an  instant  believed  that  its 
dragon  was  come  again. 

Tartarin  set  his  fellow-citizens  at  ease. 

"  This  is  my  camel,"  he  said. 

Already  feeling  the  influence  of  the  splendid 
sun  of  Tarascon,  which  makes  people  tell 
"  bouncers "  unwittingly,  he  added,  as  he 
fondled  the  camel's  hump: 

"It  is  a  noble  beast!  It  saw  me  kill  all  my 
lions!" 

Whereupon  he  familiarly  took  the  arm  of  the 
commandant,  who  was  red  with  pleasure;  and 
followed  by  his  camel,  surrounded  by  the  cap- 
hunters,  acclaimed  by  all  the  population,  he 
placidly  proceeded  towards  the  Baobab  Villa; 
and,  on  the  march,  thus  commenced  the  account 
of  his  mighty  hunting: 

"  Once  upon  an  evening,  you  are  to  imagine 
that,  out  in  the  depths  of  the  Sahara  " 


HENRY  ALTEMUS'  PUBLICATIONS. 

PHILADELPHIA,     PA. 


THE  RISE  OF  THE  DUTCH  REPUBLIC  (a  History). 
By  John  Lothrop  Motley.  A  new  and  handsome 
library  edition  of  a  Grand  Historical  Work.  Em- 
bellished with  over  50  full-page  half-tone  Engrav- 
ings. Complete  in  two  volumes — over  1,600  pages. 
Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  per  set,  $2.00.  Half  Morocco, 
gilt  top,  per  set,  $3.25. 

QUO  VADIS.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  Nero,  by  Henryk 
Sienkiewicz.  Complete  and  unabridged.  Trans- 
lated by  Dr.  S.  A.  Binton,  author  of  ''Ancient 
Egypt,"  etc.,  and  S.  Malevsky,  with  illustrations 
by  M.  DeLipman.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  ornamental, 
515  pages,  $1.25. 

WITH  FIRE  AND  SWORD.  By  the  author  of  "  Quo 
Vadis."  A  tale  of  the  past.  Crown  8vo.  825 
pages.  $1.00. 

PAN  MICHAEL.  By  the  author  of  "  Quo  Vadis."  A 
historical  tale.  Crown  8vo.  530  pages.  $1.00. 

JULIAN,  THE  APOSTATE.  By  S.  Mereshkovski.  "A 
brilliant  and  effective  picture  of  one  of  the  most 
interesting  characters  in  history,  who  had  been 
shudderingly  styled  anti-Christ  by  the  followers 
of  the  new  faith.  In  descriptive  beauty  the  work 
is  fully  equal  to  "  Quo  Vadis."  Cloth  12mo.  450 
pages.  $1.00. 

MANUAL  OF  MYTHOLOGY.  For  the  use  of  Schools, 
Art  Students,  and  General  Readers,  by  Alexander 
S.  Murray,  Depaitment  of  Greek  and  Roman  An- 
tiquities, British  Museum.  With  Notes,  Revis- 
ions, and  Additions  by  William  H.  Klapp,  Head- 
master of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Academy, 
Philadelphia.  With  200  illustrations  and  an  ex- 
haustive Index.  Large  12mo,  40  pages,  $,1.25. 

THE  AGE  OF  FABLE:  OR,  BEAUTIES  OF  MYTH- 
OLOGY. By  Thomas  Bulfinch,  with  Notes,  Re- 
visions and  Additions  by  William  H.  Klapp,  Head- 
master of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Academy, 
Philadelphia.  With  200  illustrations  and  an  ex- 
haustive Index.  Large  12mo,  450  pages,  $1.25. 

This  work  has  always  been  regarded  as  classical 
authority. 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


TAINE'S  ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  translated  from 
the  French  by  Henry  Van  Laun,  illustrated  with 
20  fine  photogravure  portraits.  Best  English 
library  edition,  four  volumes,  cloth,  full  gilt, 
octavo,  per  set,  $10.00.  Half  calf,  per  set,  $12.50. 
Cheaper  edition,  with  frontispiece  illustrations 
onlv,  cloth,  paper  titles,  per  set,  $7.50. 
STEPHEN.  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  CROSS,  by  Flor- 
ence Morse  Kingsley,  author  of  "  Titus,  a  Com- 
rade of  the  Cross."  "  Since  '  Ben-Hur  '  no  story 
has  so  vividly  portrayed  the  times  of  Christ." — 
"  The  Bookseller."  Cloth,  12mo,  369  pages,  $1.00. 
THE  CROSS  TRIUMPHANT,  by  Florence  Morse 
Kingsley,  author  of  "  Paul  and  Stephen." 
The  story  of  "  a  child  of  the  law,"  who 
witnesses,  amid  the  scenes  of  the  recent  life  and 
death  of  Jesus,  the  deepening  conflict  between  the 
Law  and  the  Cross.  Nazarite,  priest  and  warrior, 
influenced  by  three  women  of  widely-varying  char- 
acter, he  beholds  at  last  in  the  terrible  hour  of 
Jerusalem's  downfall  "  The  Cross  Triumphant." 
Cloth,  12mo,  364  pages,  $1.00. 

PAUL.  A  HERALD  OF  THE  CROSS,  by  Florence 
Morse  Kingsley.  "A  vivid  and  picturesque  nar- 
rative of  the  life  and  times  of  the  great  Apostle." 
Cloth,  12mo,  450  pages,  $1.00. 

AMERICAN  POLITICS  (non-Partisan),  by  Hon. 
Thomas  V.  Cooper.  A  history  of  all  the  Political 
Parties,  with  their  views  and  records  on  all  im- 
portant questions.  All  political  platforms  from 
the  beginning.  Great  Speeches  on  Great  Is- 
sues. Parliamentary  practice  and  tabulated  his- 
tory of  chronological  events.  A  library  without 
this  work  is  deficient.  8vo,  750  pages.  Cloth, 
$3.00.  Full  sheep,  Library  style,  $4.00. 
THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS,  as  John  Bunyan  wrote 
it.  A  fac-simile  reproduction  of  the  first  edition, 
published  in  1678.  Antique  cloth,  12mo,  $1.25. 
THE  FAIREST  OF  THE  FAIR,  by  Hildegarde  Haw- 
thorne. "  The  grand-daughter  of  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne possesses  a  full  share  of  his  wonderful 
genius."  Cloth,  16mo,  $1.25. 


HENRY  ALTEMUS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


AROUND  THE  WORLD  IN  EIGHTY  MINUTES. 
Contains  over  100  photographs  of  the  most  famous 
places  and  edifices,  with  descriptive  text.  Cloth, 
50  cents. 

SHAKSPEARE'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,  with  a  bio- 
graphical sketch  by  Mary  Cowden  Clark,  embel- 
lished with  64  Boydell,  and  numerous  other  illus- 
trations, four  volumes,  over  2,000  pages.  Half 
Morocco,  12mo,  boxed,  per  sel,  $3.00. 

THE  CARE  OF  CHILDREN,  by  Elisabeth  R.  Scovil. 
"  An  excellent  book  of  the  most  vital  interest." 
Cloth,  12mo,  $1.00. 

PREPARATION  FOR  MOTHERHOOD,  by  Elisabeth 
R.  Scovil.  Cloth,  12mo,  320  pages,  SI. 00. 

BABY'S  REQUIREMENTS,  by  Elisabeth  R.  Scovil. 
Limp  binding,  leatherette,  25  cents. 

NAMES  FOR  CHILDREN,  by  Elisabeth  Robinson  Sco 
vil,  author  of  "  The  Care  of  Children,"  ''  Prepara- 
tion for  Motherhood,"  etc.  In  family  life  there  is 
no  question  of  greater  weight  or  importance  than 
naming  the  baby.  The  author  gives  much  good 
advice  and  many  suggestions  on  the  subject.  Cloth, 
12mo,  40  cents. 

TRIF  AND  TRIXY,  by  John  Habberton,  author  of 
"  Helen's  Babies.''  The  story  is  replete  with  vivid 
and  spirited  scenes,  and  is  comparatively  the  hap- 
piest and  most  delightful  work  Mr.  Habberton  has 
yet  written.  Cloth,  12mo,  50  cents. 

SHE  WHO  WILL  NOT  WHEN  SHE  MAY,  by  Eleanor 
G.  AValton.  Half-tone  illustrations  by  C.  P.  M. 
Rumford.  "An  exquisite  prose  idyl."  Cloth,  gilt 
top.  deckle  edges,  $1.00. 

A  SON  OF  THE  CAROLINAS,  by  C.  E.  Satterthwaite. 
A  pure  romance  introducing  a  lifelike  portrayal 
of  life  on  the  coa^t  islands  of  the  Palmetto  State. 
Cloth,  12mo,  280  pages,  50  cents. 

THE  DAY  BREAKETH,  by  Fannie  Alricks  Shugert. 
A  tale  of  Rome  and  Jerusalem  in  the  time  of 
Christ.  Cloth,  12mo,  280  pages,  50  cents 

WHAT  WOMEN  SHOULD  KNOW.  A  woman's  book 
about  women.  By  Mrs.  E.  B.  Duffy.  Cloth,  320 
pages,  75  cents. 

3 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  DORE  BIBLE  GALLERY.  A  complete  pano- 
rama of  Bible  History,  containing  100  full-page  en- 
gravings by  Gustave  Dore. 

MILTON'S  PARADISE  LOST,  with  50  full-page  engrav- 
ings by  Gustave  Dore. 

DANTE'S  INFERNO,  with  75  full-page  engravings  by 
Gustave  Dore. 

DANTE'S  PURGATORY  AND  PARADISE,  with  60 
full-page  engravings  by  Gustave  Dore. 

TENNYSON'S  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING,  with  37  full- 
page  engravings  by  Gustave  Dore. 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER,  by  Sam- 
uel Taylor  Coleridge,  with  46  full-page  engravings 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

Cloth,  ornamental,  large  quarto   (9x12  inches,),  each 
$2.00. 


BUNYAN'S  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS,  with  100  engrav 
ings  by  Frederick  Barnard  and  others.  Cloth, 
small  quarto  (9x10  inches),  $1.00. 

DICKENS'  CHILD'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND,  with 
75  fine  engravings  by  famous  artists.  Cloth,  small 
quarto,  boxed  (9x10  inches),  $1.00. 

BIBLE  PICTURES  AND  STORIES,  100  full-page  en- 
gravings. Cloth,  small  quarto  (7x9  inches),  $1.00. 

MY  ODD  LITTLE  FOLK,  some  rhymes  and  verses 
about  them,  by  Malcolm  Douglass.  Numerous 
original  engravings.  Cloth,  small  quarto  (7x9 
inches),  $1.00. 

PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA,  by  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre, 
with  125  engravings  by  Maurice  Leloir.  Cloth, 
small  quarto  (9x10).  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  ROBINSON  CRUSOE, 
with  120  original  engravings  by  Walter  Paget. 
Cloth,  octavo  (7y2x9%),  $1.50. 


ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF 

STANDARD  AUTHORS. 
Cloth,  12mo.    Size  51/2x7%  Inches.     Each  $1.00. 


TALES  FROM  SHAKSPEARE,  by  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb,  with  155  illustrations  by  famous  artists. 
4 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA,  by  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre, 
with  125  engravings  by  Maurice  Leloir. 

ALICE'S  ADVENTURES  IN  WONDERLAND,  AND 
THROUGH  THE  LOOKING-GLASS  AND 
WHAT  ALICE  FOUND  THERE,  by  Lewis  Car- 
roll.  Complete  in  one  volume  with  92  engravings 
by  John  Tenniel. 

LUCILE,  by  Owen  Meredith,  with  numerous  illustra- 
tions by  George  Du  Maurier,  author  of  "  Trilby." 

BLACK  BEAUTY,^  by  Anna  Sewell,  with  nearly '50 
original  engravings. 

SCARLET  LETTER,  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  with 
numerous  original  full-page  and  text  illustrations. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES,  by  Nathan- 
iel Hawthorne,  with  numerous  original  full-page 
and  text  illustrations. 

BATTLES  OF  THE  WAR  FOR  INDEPENDENCE,  by 
Prescott  Holmes,  with  70  illustrations. 

BATTLES  OF  THE  WAR  FOR  THE  UNION,  by  Pres- 
cott Holmes  with  80  illustrations. 

THE  SONG  OF  HIAWATHA,  by  Henry  W.  Longfel- 
low, with  100  illustrations. 


ALTEMUS'  YOUNG  PEOPLES'  LIBRARY. 
Price,  50  cents  each. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE:  (Chiefly  in  words  of  one  sylla- 
ble). His  life  and  strange,  surprising  adventures, 
with  70  beautiful  illustrations  by  Walter  Paget. 

ALICE'S  ADVENTURES  IN  WONDERLAND,  with 
42  illustrations  by  John  Tenniel.  "  The  most  de- 
lightful of  children's  stories.  Elegant  and  de- 
licious nonsense." — "  Saturday  Review." 

THROUGH  THE  LOOKING-GLASS  AND  WHAT 
ALICE  FOUND  THERE;  a  companion  to  "Alice 
in  Wonderland,"  with  50  illustrations  by  John 
Tenniel. 

BUNYAN'S  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS,  with  50  full-page 
and  text  illustrations. 
5 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


Alteimis'  Young  Peoples'  Library— Continued. 

A  CHILD'S  STORY  OF  THE  BIBLE,  with  72  full-page 
illustrations. 

A  CHILD'S  LIFE  OF  CHRIST,  with  49  illustrations. 
God  has  implanted  in  the  infant  heart  a  desire 
to  hear  of  Jesus,  and  children  are  early  attracted 
and  sweetly  riveted  by  the  wonderful  Story  of  the 
Master  from  the  Manger  to  the  Throne. 

SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON,  with  50  illustrations. 
The  father  of  the  family  tells  the  tale  of  the 
vicissitudes  through  which  he  and  his  wife  and 
children  pass,  the  wonderful  discoveries  made  and 
dangers  encountered.  The  book  is  full  of  interest 
and  instruction. 

CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS  AND  THE  DISCOV- 
ERY OF  AMERICA,  with  70  illustrations.  Every 
American  boy  and  girl  should  be  acquainted  with 
the  story  of  the  life  of  the  great  discoverer,  with 
its  struggles,  adventures,  and  trials. 

THE  STORY  OF  EXPLORATION  AND  DISCOVERY 
IN  AFRICA,  with  80  illustrations.  Records  the 
experiences  of  adventures  and  discoveries  in  de- 
veloping the  "  Dark  Continent,"  from  the  early 
days  of  Bruce  and  Mungo  Park  down  to  Living- 
stone and  Stanley,  and  the  heroes  of  our  own 
times.  No  present  can  be  more  acceptable  than 
such  a  volume  as  this,  where  courage,  intrepidity, 
resource,  and  devotion  are  so  admirably  mingled. 

THE  FABLES  OF  JESOP.  Compiled  from  the  best  ac- 
cepted sources.  With  62  illustrations.  The  fables 
of  vEsop  are  among  the  very  earliest  compositions 
of  this  kind,  and  probably  have  never  been  sur- 
passed for  point  and  brevity. 

GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS.  Adapted  for  young  readers, 
with  50  illustrations. 

MOTHER     GOOSE'S     RHYMES,     JINGLES     AND 
FAIRY  TALES,  with  234  illustrations. 
6 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library— Continued. 

LIVES  OF  THE  PRESIDENTS  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES,  by  Prescott  Holmes.  With  portraits  of 
the  Presidents  and  also  of  the  unsuccessful  can- 
didates for  the  office:  as  well  as  the  ablest  of  the 
Cabinet  officers.  It  is  just  the  book  for  intelli- 
gent boys,  and  it  will  help  to  make  them  intelli- 
gent and  patriotic  citizens. 

THE  STORY  OF  ADVENTURE  IN  THE  FROZEN 
SEAS,  with  70  illustrations.  By  Prescott  Holmes. 
We  have  here  brought  together  the  records  of  the 
attempts  to  reach  the  North  Pole.  The  book 
shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished  by  steady 
perseverance  and  indomitable  pluck. 

ILLUSTRATED  NATURAL  HISTORY,  by  the  Rev. 
J.  G.  Wood,  with  80  illustrations.  This  author 
has  done  more  to  popularize  the  study  of  natural 
history  than  any  other  writer.  The  illustrations 
are  striking  and  life-like. 

A  CHILD'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND,  by  Charles 
Dickens,  with  50  illustrations.  Tired  of  listening 
to  his  children  memorize  the  twaddle  of  old- 
fashioned  English  history,  the  author  covered  the 
ground  in  his  own  peculiar  and  happy  style  for  his 
own  children's  use.  When  the  work  was  pub- 
lished its  success  was  instantaneous. 

BLACK  BEAUTY:  THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A 
HORSE,  by  Anna  Sewell,  with  50  illustrations. 
A  work  sure  to  educate  boys  and  girls  to  treat 
with  kindness  all  members  of  the  animal  kingdom. 
Recognized  as  the  greatest  story  of  animal  life  ex- 
tant. 

THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS  ENTERTAINMENTS,  with 
130  illustrations.  Contains  the  most  favorably 
known  of  the  stories. 

GRIMM'S  FAIRY  TALES.    With  55  illustrations. 

The  Tales  are  a  wonderful  collection,  as  inter- 
esting, from  a  literary  point  of  view,  as  they  are 
delightful  as  stories. 

FLOWER  FABLES.  By  Louisa  May  Alcott.  With  nu- 
merous illustrations,  full-page  and  text. 

A  series  of  very  interesting  fairy  tales  by  the 
most  charming  of  American  story-tellers. 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library— Continued. 

ANDERSEN'S  FAIRY  TALES.  By  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  With  77  illustrations. 

The  spirit  of  high  moral  teaching,  and  the  deli- 
•  cacy  of  sentiment,  feeling,  and  expression  that  per- 
vade these  tales  make  these  wonderful  creations 
not  only  attractive  to  the  young,  but  equally  ac- 
ceptable to  those  of  mature  years,  who  are  able 
to  understand  their  real  significance  and  apprec- 
ciate  the  depth  of  their  meaning. 

GRANDFATHER'S  CHAIR;  A  HISTORY  FOR 
YOUTH.  By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  With  60  il- 
lustrations. 

The  story  of  America  from  the  landing  of  the 
Puritans  to  the  acknowledgment  without  reserve 
of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States,  told 
with  all  the  Jegance,  simplicity,  grace,  clearness 
and  force  for  which  Hawthorne  is  conspicuously 
noted. 

AUNT  MARTHA'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD,  by  Mary 
and  Elizabeth  Kirby,  with  GO  illustrations.  Stor- 
ies about  Tea,  Coffee,  Sugar,  Rice  and  Chinaware, 
and  other  accessories  of  the  well-kept  Cupboard. 
A  book  full  of  interest  for  all  the  girls  and  many 
of  the  boys. 

BATTLES  OF  THE  WAR  Z70R  INDEPENDENCE, 
by  Prescott  Holmes,  with  70  illustrations.  A 
graphic  and  full  history  <  f  the  Rebellion  of  the 
American  Colonies  from  the  yoke  and  oppression 
of  England,  with  the  causes  that  led  thereto,  and 
including  an  account  of  the  second  war  with  Great 
Britain,  and  the  War  with  Mexico. 

BATTLES  OF  THE  WAR  FOR  THE  UNION,  by  Pres- 
cott Holmes,  with  80  illustrations.  A  correct  and 
impartial  account  of  the  greatest  civil  war  in  the 
annals  of  history.  Both  of  these  histories  of 
American  wars  are  a  necessary  part  of  the  educa- 
tion of  all  intelligent  American  boys  and  girls. 
8 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


ALTEMUS'  KIPLING  SERIES. 

Embracing  the  best  known  tales  and  stones  of  this 
popular  writer.  Presented  in  attractive  handy  volume 
size,  and  adapted  for  leisure  moment  reading.  Large 
type,  superior  paper  and  attractive  binding.  Cloth,  35 
cents. 

1.  THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT. 

2.  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS. 

3.  WITHOUT  BENEFIT  OF  CLERGY. 

4.  RECRUDESCENCE  OF  IMRAY. 

5.  ON  GREENHOW  HILL. 

6.  WEE  WILLIE  WINKIE. 

7.  THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING. 

8.  MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY. 

9.  THE  COURTING  OF  DINAH  SHADD. 

10.  THE     INCARNATION     OF     KRISHNA    MUL- 

VANEY. 

11.  HIS  MAJESTY  THE  KING. 

12.  WITH  THE  MAIN  GUARD. 

13.  THE  THREE  MUSKETEERS. 

14.  LISPETH. 

15.  CUPID'S  ARROWS. 

16.  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  SUDDHOO. 

17.  THE  BRONCKHORST  DIVORCE-CASE. 

18.  THE  JUDGMENT  OF  DUNGARA. 

19.  GEMINI. 

20.  AT  TWENTY-TWO. 

21.  ON  THE  CITY  WALL. 


ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  ONE  SYLLABLE 
SERIES  FOR  YOUNG  READEARS. 


Embracing  popular  works  arranged  for  the  young  folks 
in  words  of  one  syllable. 

Printed  from  extra  large  clear  type  on  fine  enamelled 
paper  and  fully  illustrated  by  famous  artists.  The  hand- 
somest line  of  books  for  young  children  before  the  pub- 
lic. 

Fine  English  cloth;  handsome,  new,  original  designs, 
50  cents. 


1.  AESOP'S  FABLES.    62  illustrations. 

2.  A  CHILD'S  LIFE  OF  C7IRIST.    49  illustrations. 

9 


HENRY  ALTEMUS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


One  Syllable  Series— Continued. 

3.  A  CHILD'S  STORY  OF  THE  BIBLE.    72  illustra- 

tions. 

4.  THE    ADVENTURES    OF    ROBINSON    CRUSOE. 

70  illustrations. 

5.  BUNYAN'S  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.    46  illustra- 

tions. 

6.  SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON.    50  illustrations. 

7.  GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS.    50  illustrations. 


HENRY  ALTEMUS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


ALTEMUS'  NEW  ILLUSTRATED  VADEMECUM 

SERIES. 

Masterpieces  of  English  and  American  literature, 
handy  volume  size,  large  type  editions.  Each  volume 
contains  illuminated  title  pages,  etched  portrait  of 
author  or  colored  frontispiece  and  numerous  engravings. 
Full  cloth,  ivory  finish,  ornamental  inlaid  sides  and 
back,  boxed,  40  cents. 


1.  ABBE  CONSTANTIN.-Halevy. 

2.  ADVENTURES  OF  A  BROWNIE.— Mulock. 

3.  ALICE'S  ADVENTURES  IN  WONDERLAND.— 

Carroll. 

4.  AMERICAN  NOTES.-Kipling. 

5.  AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    BENJAMIN   FRANK- 

LIN. 

6.    AUTOCRAT   OF  THE   BREAKFAST  TABLE.— 
Holmes. 

11.  BAB   BALLALDS    AND   SAVOY   SONGS.— Gil- 

bert. 

12.  BACON'S  ESSAYS. 

13.  BALZAC'S  SHORTER  STORIES. 

14.  BARRACK-ROOM  BALLADS  AND  DITTIES.- 

Kipling. 

15.  BATTLE  OF  LIFE.— Dickens. 

16.  BIGLOW  PAPERS.-Lowell. 

17.  BLACK  BEAUTY— Sewell. 

18.  BLITHEDALE  ROMANCE,  THE.— Hawthorne. 

19.  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL.— Irving. 

20.  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

26.  CAMILLE.— Dumas,  Jr. 

27.  CARMEN.— Merimee. 

10 


HENRY  ALTEMUS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


Vademecum  Series— Continued. 

28.  CHARLOTTE  TEMPLE.— Rowson. 

29.  CHESTERFIELD'S      LETTERS,      SENTENCES 

AND  MAXIMS. 

30.  CHILD'S  GARDEN  OF  VERSES.-Stevenson. 

31.  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.— Byron. 

32.  CHIMES,  THE.— Dickens. 

33.  CHRISTIE'S  OLD  ORGAN.— Walton. 

34.  CHRISTMAS  CAROL,   A.— Dickens. 

35.  CONFESSIONS    OF   AN    OPIUM    EATER.— De 

Quincey. 

36.  CRANFORD.— Gaskell. 

37.  CRICKET  ON  THE  HEARTH.— Dickens. 

38.  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLiVE,  THE.— Ruskin. 

43.  DAY  BREAKETH,  THE.-Shugert. 

44.  DAYS    WITH    SIR   ROGER   DE    COVERLY.— 

Addlson. 

45.  DISCOURSES,  EPICTETUS. 

46.  DOC:  OF  FLANDERS,  A.— Ouida. 

47.  DREA.vi  LIFE.— Mitchell. 

51.  EMiiJi       N'S  ESSAYS,  FIRST  SERIES. 

52.  EMERSON'S  ESSAYS,  SECOND  SERIES. 

53.  ENDYMION.— Keats. 

54.  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA.— Lamb. 

55.  ETHICS  OF  THE  DUST.— Ruskin. 

56.  EVANGELINE.— Longfellow. 

61.  FAIRY  LAND  OF  SCIENCE.— Buckley. 

62.  FANCHON.— Sand. 

63.  FOR  DAILY  BREAD.— Sienkiewicz. 

67.  GRAMMAR  OF  PALMISTRY.— St.  Hill. 

68.  GREEK  HEROES.— Kingsley. 

69.  GULLIVER'S  TRAVEL'S.— Swift. 

74.  HANIA.— Sienkiewicz. 

75.  HAUNTED  MAN,  THE.— Dickens. 

76.  HEROES  AND  HERO  WORSHIP.— Carlyle. 

77.  HIAWATHA,   THE  SONG  OF.— Longfellow. 

78.  HOLME'S  POEMS. 

79.  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES.— Hawthorne. 

80.  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF.— Weyman. 

81.  HYPERION.— Longfellow. 

87.  IDLE  THOUGHTS  OF  AN  IDLE  FELLOW.— 

Jerome. 

88.  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING— Tennyson. 

89.  IMPREGNABLE    ROCK    OF    HOLY    SCRIPT- 
URE—Gladstone. 

11 


HENRY    ALTEMTJS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


Vadernecum  Series— Continued. 

90.  IN  BLACK  AND  WHITE.— Kipling. 

91.  IN  MEMORI  AM.— Tennyson. 

96.  JESSICA'S  FIRST  PRAYER.— Stretton. 

97.  J.  COLE.— Gellibrand. 

101.  KAVANAGH.— Longfellow. 

102.  KIDNAPPED.— Stevenson. 

103.  KNICKERBOCKER'S      HISTORY      OF      NEW 

YORK.— Irving. 

107.  LA   BELLE   NIVERXAIPE—  Daudet. 

108.  LADDIE  AND  MISS  TOOSEY'S  MISSION. 
J09.    LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.— Scott. 

110.  LALLA  ROOKH,— Moore. 

111.  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELTA.— Lamb. 

112.  LAYS  OF  ANCIENT  ROME,  THE.-Macaulay. 

113.  LET  US  FOLLOW  HIM.— Sienkiewicz. 

114.  LIGHT  OF  ASIA.— Arnold. 

115.  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED,  THE.— Kipling. 

116.  LITTLE  LAME  PRINCE.— Mulock. 

117.  LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS,  VOL.  I. 

118.  LONGFELLOW'S  POEMS,  VOL.  II. 

119.  LOWELL'S  POEMS. 

120.  LUCILE.— Meredith. 

126.  MAGIC  NUTS,  THE.— Molesworth. 

127.  MANON  LESCAUT.— Prevost. 

128.  MARMION.— Scott. 

129.  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE,  THE— Stevenson 

130.  MILTON'S  POEMS. 

131.  MINE  OWN  PEOPLE.— Kipling. 

132.  MINISTER  OF  THE  WORLD.— Mason. 

133.  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE.— Hawthorne 

134.  MULVANEY  STORIES.— Kipling. 

140.  NATURAL      LAW      IN      THE      SPIRITUAL 

WORLD.— Drummond. 

141.  NATURE,    ADDRESSES,    AND    LECTURES.— •. 

Emerson. 

145.  OLD  CHRISTMAS.-Irving. 

146.  OUTRE-MER.— Longfellow. 

150.  PARADISE  LOST.— Milton. 

151.  PARADISE  REGAINED.— Milton. 

152.  PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA.— Sainte  Pierre. 

153.  PETER  SCHLEMIHL.— Chamisso. 

154.  PHANTOM  RICKSHAW.— Kipling. 

155.  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS,  THE.— Bunyan. 

12 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


Vademecum  Series— Continued. 

156.  PLAIN  TALES  FROM  THE  HILLS.— Kipling. 

157.  PLEASURES  OF  LIFE.— Lubbock. 

158.  PLUTARCH'S  LIVES. 

159.  POE'S  POEMS. 

160.  PRINCE  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  DAVID.— Ingra- 

ham. 

161.  PRINCESS  AND  MAUD.— Tennyson. 

162.  PRUE  AND  I.— Curtis. 

169.  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR.-Ruskin. 

172.  RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.— Brown. 

173.  REPRESENTATIVE   MEN.— Emerson. 

174.  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR.— Mitchell. 

175.  RIP  VAN  WINKLE.— Irving. 

176.  ROMANCE    OF    A    POOR    YOUNG    MAN.— 

Feuillet. 

177.  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM.— 

182.  SAMANTHA  AT  SARATOGA.— Holley. 

183.  SARTOR  RESARTUS.— Carlyle. 

184.  SCARLET  LETTER,  THE.-Hawthorne. 

185.  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL.— Sheridan. 

186.  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY,   A.— Sterne. 

187.  SESAME  ANL  LILIES.— Ruskin. 

188.  SHAKSPEARE'S  HEROINES.— Jameson. 

189.  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.— Goldsmith. 

190.  SILAS  MARNER.— Eliot. 

191.  SKETCH  BOOK,  THE.— Irving. 

192.  SNOW  IMAGE,  THE.— Hawthorne. 

199.  TALES  FROM  SHAKSPEARE.— Lamb. 

200.  TANGLEWOOD  TALES.-Hawthorne. 

201.  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON.— Daudet 

202.  TARTARIN  ON  THE  ALPS.— Daudet. 

203.  TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A  BAR-ROOM— Arthur 

204.  THINGS  WILL  TAKE  A  TURN.— Harraden. 

205.  THOUGHTS.— MARCUS  AURELIUS. 

206.  THROUGH  THE  LOOKING  GLASS.-Carroll. 

207.  TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS.— Hughes. 

208.  TREASURE  ISLAND.— Stevenson. 

209.  TWICE  TOLD  TALES.— Hawthorne. 

210.  TWO  YEARS  BEFORE  THE  MAST— Dana. 

217.  UNCLE  TOM'S  CABIN.— Stowe. 

218.  UNDINE.— Fouque. 

222.  VIC;    THE    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    A    FOX- 
TERRIER— Marsh. 
13 


HENRY    ALTEMUS'    PUBLICATIONS. 


Vademecuin  Series— Continued. 

223.  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.— Goldsmith. 

226.  WALDEN.— Thoreau. 

227.  WATER  BABIES.— Kingsley. 

228.  WEIRD  TALES.— Poe. 

229.  WHAT  IS  ART?-Tolstoi. 

230.  WHITTIER'S  POEMS,  VOL.  I. 

231.  WHITTIER'S  POEMS,  VOL.  II. 

232.  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.— Barrie. 

233.  WOMAN'S  WORK  IN  THE  HOME.— Farrar. 

234.  WONDER  BOOK,   A.— Hawthorne. 

241.  YELLOWPLUSH  PAPERS,  THE.-Thackeray, 

244.  ZOE.— By  author  of  "  Laddie,"  etc. 


ALTEMUS'    ILLUSTRATED    DEVOTIONAL 
SERIES. 

Full   White  Vellum,   handsome    new   mosaic   design   in 
gold  and  colors,  gold  edges,  Boxed,  50  cents. 

1.  ABIDE  IN  CHRIST.— Murray. 

2.  AT  THE  BEAUTIFUL  GATE. 

3.  BEECHER'S  ADDRESSES. 

4.  BEST  THOUGHTS.— From   Henry  Drummond. 

5.  BIBLE  BIRTHDAY  BOOK. 

6.  BROOKS'  ADDRESSES. 

7.  CHAMBER    OF    PEACE. 

8.  CHANGED  CROSS,  THE. 

9.  CHRISTIAN  LIFE.— Oxenden. 

10.  CHRISTIAN   LIVING.— Meyer. 

11.  CHRISTIAN'S  SECRET  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

12.  CHRISTIE'S  OLD  ORGAN— Walton. 

13.  COMING  TO  CHRIST.— Havergal. 

14.  DAILY  FOOD  FOR  CHRISTIANS. 

15.  DAY   RREAKETH,  THE.— Shugert. 

16.  DAYS  OF  GRACE.— Murray. 

17.  DRUMMOND'S  ADDRESSES. 

18.  EVENING  THOUGHTS.— Havergal. 

19.  GOLD  DUST. 

20.  HOLY  IN  CHRIST.— Murray. 

21.  IMITATION  OF  CHRIST,  THE.— A'Kempis. 

22.  IMPREGNABLE  ROCK  OF  HOLY  SCRIPTURE. 

— Gladstone. 

14 


HENRY  ALTEMUS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


Devotional  Series— Continued. 

•23.  JESSICA'S  FIRST  PRAYER.— Stretton. 

24.  JOHN    PLOUGHMAN'S    PICTURES.— Spurgeon. 

25.  JOHN  PLOUGHMAN'S  TALK.— Spurgeon. 

26.  KEPT  FOR  THE  MASTER'S  USE.— Havergal. 

27.  KEBLE'S  CHRISTIAN  YEAR. 

28.  LET  US   FOLLOW   HIM.— Sienkiewicz. 

29.  LIKE  CHRIST.-Murray. 

30.  LINE  UPON  LINE. 

31.  MANLINESS   OF   CHRIST,   THE.-Hughes. 

32.  MESSAGE  OF  PEACE,  THE.— Church. 

33.  MORNING  THOUGHTS.— Havergal. 

34.  MY  KING  AND  HIS  SERVICE.-Havergal. 

35.  NATURAL      LAW      IN      THE      SPIRITUAL 

WORLD.— Drummond. 

36.  PALACE  OF  THE  KING. 

37.  PATHWAY  OF  PROMISE. 

38.  PATHWAY  OF  SAFETY.-Oxenden. 

39.  PEEP  OF  DAY. 

40.  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS,  THE.— Bunyan. 

41.  PRECEPT  UPON   PRECEPT. 

42.  PRINCE   OF   THE   HOUSE   OF  DAVID— Ingra- 

ham. 

43.  SHADOW  OF  THE  ROCK. 

44.  SHEPHERD    PSALM.— Meyer. 

45.  STEPS  INTO  THE  BLESSED  LIFE— Meyeu 

46.  STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.— Prentiss. 

47.  THE  THRONE  OF  GRACE. 

48.  UNTO  THE  DESIRED  HAVEN. 

49.  UPLANDS  OF  GOD. 

50.  WITH   CHRIST.— Murray. 


15 


ALTEMUS'  EDITION   SHAKSPEARE   PLAYS. 
HANDY    VOLUME    SIZE. 

Limp  cloth  binding,   gold  top,   illuminated  title  and 
frontispiece,  35  cents. 


1.  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

2.  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

3.  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

4.  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

5.  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

6.  CORIOLANUS. 

7.  CYMBELINE. 

8.  HAMLET. 

9.  JULIUS  C.^SAR. 

10.  KING  HENRY  IV.     (Part  I). 

11.  KING  HENRY  IV.     (Part  II). 

12.  KING  HENRY  V. 

13.  KING  HENRY  VI.     (Part  I). 

14.  KING  HENRY  VI.     (Part  II). 

15.  KING  HENRY  VI.     (Part  III). 

16.  KING  HENRY  VIII. 

17.  KING  JOHN. 

18.  KING  LEAR. 

19.  KING  RICHARD  II. 

20.  KI-NG  RICHARD  III. 

21.  LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 

22.  MACBETH. 

23.  MEASURE  FCR  MEASURE. 

24.  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

25.  OTHELLO. 

26.  PERICLES. 

27.  ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

28.  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

29.  THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 

30.  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 

31.  THE   TEMPEST. 

32.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 

33.  TIIK  WINTER'S  TALE. 

34.  TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 

35.  TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 

36.  TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 

37.  TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

38.  VENUS  AND  ADONIS  AND  LUCRECE. 

39.  SONNETS,  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM,  ETC. 

16 


